The 


HENRY-SETON-MERRIMAN 


i 


1 


Copyright,  iSgg, 

BY 

DODD,  MEAD   &   COMPANY 
Revised  and  Authorized  Edition 


Prefac( 


"  The  Phantom  Future  "  is  an  early  and  im- 
mature attempt  which  has  at  some  trouble  and 
expense  been  withdrawn  from  circulation  in 
England.  Seeing  that  under  existing  copyright 
law  the  book  is  unprotected  in  the  United  States 
from  the  unauthorized  enterprise  of  certain  pub- 
lishers, the  author  finds  himself  practically  forced 
to  issue  an  edition  of  this  and  other  early  works. 
He  does  this  in  full  consciousness  of  a  hundred 
defects  which  the  most  careful  revision  cannot 
eliminate.  The  book  has  been  corrected  by  the 
author,  who  now  submits  it  to  the  geneiosity  ol 
the  critic  and  the  good  sense  of  the  reader  with 
the  assurance  that  had  he  been  in  a  position  to 
choose  he  would  not  have  sought  this  indulgence. 

Henry  Seton  Merriman. 


Contents 

CHAPTER 

I. 

Myra's  Bar      .... 

II. 

,  Syra's  Admirers  . 

III. 

The  Future     .... 

IV. 

GOLDHEATH     .... 

V. 

Old  Shipmates 

VI. 

Playmates    .... 

VII. 

Crozier's  Lie    . 

VIII. 

Resurrection  Pie 

IX. 

The  Academy  of  Cheerfulness 

X. 

The  School  of  Melancholy 

XI. 

Quicksand        .... 

XII. 

HOLDSWORTH   MoVES       . 

XIII. 

The  Doctor's  Malady    . 

XIV. 

Burnt  Fingers 

XV. 

A  Creature  of  Impulse  . 

XVI. 

Intruders     .... 

XVII. 

Syra's  Secret 

XVllI. 

Fortune  Smiles    . 

XIX. 

A  Shadow  Forecast 

XX. 

Diplomacy    .... 

XXI. 

The  Plot         .... 

VI 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

PAGE 

XXII. 

Flowers 

. 

239 

XXIII. 

Danger      .... 

• 

248 

XXIV. 

The  Reckoning  Up 

. 

260 

XXV. 

Forewarned 

. 

267 

XXVI. 

For  the  Ship's  S^ke     . 

. 

281 

XXVII. 

Impulse       .... 

. 

296 

XXVIII. 

The  Bushel  Raised 

. 

•• 

311 

XXIX. 

The  Fire    .... 

. 

323 

XXX. 

The  Valley  of  the  Shadow 

m 

XXXI. 

"Be   Ye  Therefore  Very 

COUR- 

ageous "... 

. 

. 

346 

XXXII. 

Goldheath  Again 

. 

360 

The  Phantom  Future 


CHAPTER  I 
myra's  bar 

"Yes,  Mr.  Crozier,  I  think  it  is  very  good. 
Tell  me,  will  it  make  a  difference  in  his  life.^" 

The  girl  who  spoke  closed  the  book  she  had 
been  glancing  through,  and  laid  it  upon  the 
marble  counter  among  the  sherry-decanters, 
black  china  match-boxes,  and  ash-trays.  She 
was  only  a  barmaid,  and  the  brilliant  gas  shining 
down  from  a  sun-light  in  the  ceiling  overhead 
betrayed  the  fact  that  her  face  was  not  quite  in- 
nocent of  artificial  aid.  The  lower  lip  was 
pressed  upward  when  in  repose,  forcing  the  up- 
per slightly  out  of  place.  The  expression  im- 
parted thus  to  the  daintiest  mouth  imaginable 
was  not  disagreeable,  but  it  was  somewhat  sad, 
if  studied  closely,  for  it  seemed  to  imply  that  ex- 
istence was  an  effort. 

The  man  to  whom  her  question  was  addressed 
did  not  answer  at  once.  He  took  a  long  sip  of 
whiskey-and-water,  and  by  a  turn  of  his  tongue 
shifted  his  cigar  from  the  left  to  the  right-hand 
corner  of  his  mouth.  He  was  a  heavy-shoul- 
I 


2  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

dered  man,  with  a  large  head  and  small  blue 
eyes  set  close  together.  When  he  thought 
deeply  his  eyes  appeared  to  contract  and  sink 
deeper  beneath  the  forehead.  This  expression 
came  over  his  face  now,  although  his  gaze  was 
fixed  on  nothing  more  interesting  than  the  lino- 
leum which  covered  the  floor. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said,  thoughtfully;  and 
being  seated  on  a  high  stool  he  swung  his  right 
leg  backward  and  forward.  "It  is  hard  to  say 
what  the  result  will  be.  He  is  such  a  harum- 
scarum  sort  of  fellow  that  one  never  knows 
what  he  will  do  next.  Seems  to  be  sick  of  med- 
icine, does  he  not.?" 

The  girl  had  risen  from  her  seat  behind  the 
bar,  displaying  a  perfect  figure,  shown  to  full 
advantage  by  a  well-made  black  dress.  She 
moved  along  to  the  end  of  the  curving  counter 
and  turned  the  gas  that  burnt  beneath  a  huge  sil- 
ver coflfee-urn  slightly  higher. 

"They  will  be  coming  in,  in  a  few  minutes," 
she  murmured  to  herself,  glancing  upward  at 
the  clock  suspended  on  the  wall  opposite.  Then 
she  answered  Crozier's  question  carelessly  and 
indifferently,  after  the  manner  of  a  person  who 
has  been  talking  on  uninteresting  topics  all  day. 

"Yes;  he  seems  tired  of  it.  I  do  not  think 
that  he  ever  was  very  enthusiastic  about  it 
though! " 

Her  voice  was  somewhat  deep  and  she  spoke 
very  neatly,  clipping  her  words  occasionally  in  a 


MYRA'S  BAR  3 

manner  which  suggested  that  she  had,  at  one 
time,  learnt  elocution. 

"Sickening  profession,"  grumbled  the  man. 
He  emitted  a  cloud  of  smoke  from  his  lips  with- 
out removing  the  cigar,  and  looking  up  presently, 
saw  that  it  floated  directly  into  the  girl's  face 
and  around  her  elaborately  dressed  fair  hair. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  hastily,  and 
with  his  broad  hand  he  waved  the  smoke  aside 
gravely. 

"Oh,  never  mind,"  she  laughed,  "I  do  not 
mind  smoke.  I  have  been  accustomed  to  it  for 
some  years  now.  There  are  very  often  ten  of 
you  smoking  in  this  little  room  in  the  evening." 

She  spoke  in  a  quick,  heartless  way,  with  a 
conventional  smile  upon  her  lips. 

"Makes  no  diiference,"  he  said  gravely. 

For  a  moment  an  odd  expression  flitted 
through  the  girl's  eyes,  or  to  be  more  strictly 
correct,  an  expression  came  where  none  had 
been  before,  for  her  eyes  were  singularly  cold 
and  lifeless.  She  was  occupied  with  the  duties 
appertaining  to  her  office — polishing  decanters, 
arranging  symmetrically  inverted  wine-glasses 
and  tumblers  upon  the  marble  counter,  and  see- 
ing that  a  plentiful  supply  of  each  brand  of 
whiskey  was  ready,  for  Myra's  Bar  boasted  of 
seventeen  different  distillations  in  Scotch  whis- 
keys alone. 

She  glanced  toward  the  heavy-featured  man 
who  was  the  sole  occupant  of  the  little  room  of 


4  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

which  she  was  the  presiding  divinity  and — al- 
most spoi<e.  Her  lips  were  parted  for  an  in- 
stant, and  then  they  closed  again  with  the  odd 
upward  pressure. 

Of  all  the  frequenters  of  this  small  curtained 
room  at  the  back  of  Myra's  Bar  this  was  the  only 
man  who  took  her  seriously,  who  gave  her  credit 
for  being  something  more  than  a  beautiful  ma- 
chine whose  duty  it  was  to  smile  at  doubtful 
jokes,  ignore  double  meanings,  and  pass  from 
morning  till  night  glasses  of  a  hundred  different 
intoxicating  liquors  across  a  marble  counter  into 
unsteady  hands.  There  were  other  gentlemen 
among  these  thirsty  souls,  men  with  true  and 
gentle  hearts  perhaps,  with  deep-hidden  hopes 
and  aspirations;  but  they  reserved  the  graver 
sides  of  their  lives  for  other  moments.  They 
dropped  into  Myra's  on  their  way  to  their  en- 
graving-shops, after  hospital  hours,  or  before  the 
stage-doors  were  opened;  and  they  came  to  dis- 
cuss the  newest  play,  the  latest  book,  or  the  best 
picture.  They  never  drank  very  much,  but  they 
talked  a  great  deal,  and  laughed  more.  Myra's 
Bar  was  no  place  for  gravity. 

Crozier  took  up  the  book  again,  and  slowly 
turning  over  the  pages,  looked  at  the  illustrations 
critically.  To  the  letterpress  he  gave  no  heed. 
Perhaps  the  poems  were  familiar  to  him,  or  more 
likely  still,  he  did  not  care  for  such  stuff,  al- 
though there  was  a  well-read  look  about  his  face. 
The  drawings  were  exquisite,  soft,  delicate,  and 


MYRA'S  BAR  5 

full  of  subtle  meaning.  The  hand  that  guided 
the  pencil  might  almost  have  held  the  pen.  it 
was  a  well-known  collection,  but  never  had  such 
an  edition  appeared  before,  never  had  the  poet's 
thoughts  met  with  such  a  sympathetic  exponent. 

Crozier  rarely  talked  of  himself.  That  subject 
was  laid  aside  by  his  action  of  taking  up  the 
book. 

"Yes,  Syra,"  he  said,  in  a  business-like  tone, 
^' there  is  good  work  here — better  work  than 
sawing  bones  and  making  pills." 

"And  drinking  gin-and-bitters,"  added  the 
girl,  with  a  faint  suggestion  of  severity  in  her 
tone.  Her  back  was  turned  toward  him,  and  a 
very  graceful  back  it  was.  She  was  wiping  the 
dust  from  the  shelves,  which  rose  in  a  tier  up  to 
the  ceiling,  all  glittering  with  full  and  brilliantly- 
labelled  bottles.  Crozier  looked  up  with  slightly 
raised  eyebrows. 

"Perhaps,"  he  said,  cynically;  and  he  pushed 
his  empty  glass  across  toward  her. 

She  turned  and  gave  him  some  whiskey  from 
a  small  glass  barrel,  measuring  the  quantity  rap- 
idly and  dexterously  with  a  silver  vessel  shaped 
like  a  tiny  tumbler. 

He  opened  his  light  top-coat  in  order  to  take  a 
cigar  from  an  inner  pocket,  and  in  doing  so  dis- 
played that  he  was  in  dress  clothes.  The  man- 
ner in  which  he  wore  them  seemed  to  imply  that 
he  was  in  the  habit  of  donning  such  apparel 
every  night. 


6  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

"  Have  you  been  singing  to-night  ?  "  asked  the 
girl  carelessly. 

"No;  I  have  been  to  the  opening  of  the  new 
comic  opera,"  he  rephed,  with  a  cleverly  sup- 
pressed yawn;  "  Minette,  they  call  it.  But  ^ 
came  away  early;  I  could  not  stand  it.  Very 
poor  music,  very  badly  sung.  Syra,  mark  my 
words,  these  comic  operas,  redolent  of  .  .  , 
of  .  .  ."he  hesitated,  and  looked  at  her  quiz- 
zically, "of  gin-and-bitters,  let  us  say — reeking 
with  Strand  slang,  overwhelmed  with  vulgar 
'business,'  and  disfigured  by  stupid  'gag' — are 
dancing  over  the  grave  of  music,  deceased,  and 
reproduced  in  painted  wax-work  like  Madame 
Tussaud's  defunct  heroes." 

Beneath  his  cloak  of  cynicism  the  man  really 
felt  what  he  was  saying.  Had  Syra  been  a 
reader  of  newspapers,  she  would  have  found  a 
strangely  ambiguous  criticism  in  several  of  the 
"  dailies  "  next  morning,  which  one  and  all  left  a 
very  vague  impression  of  the  merits  of  Minette, 
and  in  no  way  coincided  with  the  opinion  just 
expressed.  But  Syra  was  not  thinking  of  the 
opera  at  all. 

"Was  Mr.  Valliant  with  you.?"  she  asked  in- 
differently. 

"No,"  was  the  prompt  reply.  "I  have  not 
seen  him  since  this  morning.  No  doubt  he  will 
be  coming  in  soon." 

"  I  wish  he  would  not  come  in  so  often." 

"Syra,"  said  Crozier,  reproachfully,    "that  is 


MYRAS  BAR  7 

not  a  business-like  remark.  I  have  endeavoured 
for  some  years  .  .  .  years,  no!  let  us  say 
months — to  make  you  look  at  things  and  men  in 
a  business-like  manner,     1  am  disappointed!  " 

The  girl  laughed,  but  did  not  look  toward  him. 

"  One  cannot  always  be  business-like,"  she  re- 
plied, in  her  neat  way. 

"Why  not?  Everything  goes;  youth,  illu- 
sions, pleasure,  and  even  music.  Only  work 
stays  with  us.  Therefore  let  us  be  business-like. 
Besides,  your  remark  was  rude.  Mr.  Valliant  is 
my  friend." 

"One  would  hardly  think  so." 

"Indeed,"  said  Crozier,  with  great  serenity. 
"Am  I  to  understand  that  you  are  of  opinion 
that  Samuel  Crozier's  friendship  is  a  doubtful 
iicquisition  ?" 

She  laughed  again  in  a  terribly  mechanical 
•way,  and  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"As  you  like." 

"Then  please  pass  me  the  water." 

She  handed  him  the  carafe,  and  turned  away 
^gain,  standing  with  her  two  hands — a  little 
reddened  by  const:.nt  contact  with  beer  and 
other  liquors — resting  upon  the  marble  counter. 
It  was  thus  that  she  stood  when  the  little  bar- 
room was  full;  at  attention,  surrounded  by  her 
.innumerable  bottles,  with  all  her  decanters  at 
hand,  in  front  of  the  cash-drawer. 

He  filled  up  his  glass  with  grave  deliberation, 
.and  a  hand  that  was  as  steady  as  a  rock. 


8  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

"There  is  something,"  he  said,  as  he  raised 
the  glass,  "in  the  atmosphere  of  this  secluded 
retreat  to-night  which  is  new  to  me.  Smoke  1 
see;  chops,  kidneys,  and  other  delicate  odours 
of  the  grill  I  detect,  wafted  in  from  the  neigh- 
bouring supper-room,  where  the  portly  Myra 
dispenses  hospitality  at  a  fixed  and  moderate 
charge.  But  it  is  none  of  these.  Neither  is  it 
the  subtle  scent  of  strong  waters.  It  is  impalpa- 
ble, indefinite.     Syra,  is  it  Virtue?" 

Beneath  her  lowered  lids  she  glanced  sideways 
toward  him,  and  her  lips  curled  slightly  in  a  smile 
which  was  almost  sickly  and  quite  unpleasant. 
She  was  accustomed  to  Crozier's  grave  jocu- 
larity, and  rose  to  the  occasion  at  once. 

"If  it  is,"  she  said  merrily,  " be  very  careful 
how  you  inhale  it." 

He  smiled  at  the  sally,  and  rose  from  his  seat 
to  cross  the  room  toward  the  fireplace  where  a 
few  cinders  lingered  unheeded.  It  was  late  in 
February,  and  a  fire  was  hardly  necessary  in  the 
small  curtained  room  where  the  gas  burnt  all  day. 
With  a  turn  of  his  finger  he  threw  the  ash  from 
his  cigar  cleverly  into  the  cinders.  Then  he 
turned  and  walked  toward  her. 

"There  is  something  wrong  to-night,"  he  said. 
"What  is  it?  Have  you  had  some  one  in  here 
from  Exeter  Hall,  or  has  a  mistaken  person  been 
leaving  tracts  ?" 

There  was  a  subtle  difference  in  his  tone,  so 
slight  and  so  delicate,  that  no  one  who  did  not. 


MYRA'S  BAR  9 

know  his  manner  very  well  would  have  suspected 
that  he  was  quite  serious.  The  girl,  however, 
whose  human  studies  must  have  been  very  inter- 
esting and  strangely  contradictory,  knew  at  once 
that  he  expected  a  grave  reply. 

"Is  it  right,"  she  asked  quickly,  "that  a  man 
who  can  draw  like  that,"  and  she  laid  her  hand 
upon  the  book,  "should  spend  his  time  drinking 
and  smoking  here?" 

Again  he  looked  at  her  in  a  gravely  quizzical 
manner. 

"  Is  it  right,"  he  asked  solemnly,  "that  a  man 
who  can  sing  like  Sam  Crozier  should  make  music 
for  the  common  herd  of  St.  James's  Hall  ?  Is  not 
his  place  in  another  sphere  with  a  golden  harp  of 
his  own  ?  Is  it  right  that  Miss  Faucit,  the  fair 
and  gracious,  otherwise  known  as  Syra,  should 
dispense  liquid  nourishment  to  Tom,  Dick,  and 
Harry,  receiving  in  return  badly  turned  compli- 
ments ?  Is  anything  right,  Syra — life,  trouble, 
woe,  and  joy  ?" 

"Oh!  Don't  play  the  fool!"  exclaimed  the 
girl  impatiently. 

"My  dear  Syra,  I  am  as  grave  as  a  judge.  The 
world  would  be  a  dull  place  if  there  were  no 
fools,  or  no  wise  men  with  a  turn  for  playing  the 
fool." 

"  I  wish,"  said  the  girl,  without  looking  toward 
him,  "that  you  would  keep  Mr.  Valliant  away 
from  here,  and  from  all  these  loafers  whom  he  is 
pleased  to  call  his  friends." 


10  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

"I?"  he  exclaimed  in  wonder.  "What  have 
J  to  do  with  it?" 

"  You  are  the  only  man  who  has  any  influence 
with  him,  the  only  one  among  them  all  who 
knows  anything  of  his  private  life,  who  is  ac- 
quainted with  his  people." 

Crozier  raised  his  glass  to  his  lips,  and  took  a 
slow,  meditative  sip.  His  face  was  very  grave 
when  he  set  it  down  again,  and  his  deep-set  eyes 
were  overshadowed. 

"Why  this  interest  in  Valliant?"  he  asked 
pointedly. 

She  met  his  deep,  searching  glance  with  calm 
assurance.  Then  suddenly  she  laughed  in  his 
face  and  shook  her  head  merrily. 

"How  funny!"  she  exclaimed.  "Did  you 
really  think.     .     .     ." 

"No,"  he  interrupted,  "I  thought  nothing. 
Thinking  does  not  lie  in  my  line  of  country.  I 
merely  asked  a  question." 

"  And  I  will  answer  it.  This  interest  in  Mr. 
Valliant  comes  from  the  fact  that  he  is  too  good 
for  such  a  life  as  he  is  drifting  into.  You  and 
he  are  different — different  from  the  rest  of  them. 
You  may  not  dress  so  well,  you  may  not  be  so 
rich,  but — but  you  know  what  I  mean," 

"  I  suppose  I  do,"  he  replied,  swinging  his  leg 
and  glancing  up  at  the  clock.  "  But  I  don't  think 
you  can  accuse  me  of  leading  him  astray.  He 
came  up  to  town  to  pass  his  exams  and  go 
through   the   hospital.     Is   it   my   fault  that    he 


MYRA'S  BAR  ii 

should  have  fallen  into  the  fastest  set  ?  It  was 
bound  to  be  the  case;  the  cleverest  men  as  a  rule 
are  the  fastest,  and  Valliant  is  the  sort  of  fellow 
to  be  at  the  front  wherever  he  may  be.  He  is 
not  a  rear-rank  man." 

"  But  you  can  hold  him  back." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  the  man,  with  an  odd,  con- 
scious look  upon  his  powerful  face.  "Perhaps 
I  do  hold  him  back.  Perhaps,  Syra.  I  know 
him  better  than  you.  Has  it  never  struck  you 
that  he  is  the  sort  of  man  who  can  never  be  in- 
fluenced by  strong  measures — a  man  who  is  as 
difficult  to  lead  or  hold  back  as  a  woman  ?  He 
cannot  bear  the  curb  and  spur." 

He  rose  and  walked  toward  the  heavy  curtains 
which,  falling  together  across  a  broad  doorway, 
separated  the  inner  from  the  outer  apartment. 
There  were  a  few  men  in  the  larger  room  where 
Myra  held  sway;  second-rate  actors  whose  even- 
ing duties  were  over,  and  journalistic  loafers. 
They  were  all  talking  in  loud  tones  of  matters 
dramatic,  and  there  was  an  attendant  clink  of 
glasses.  The  odour  that  came  through  the  cur- 
tains was  only  that  of  the  little  room  intensified 
and  more  heavily  laden  with  the  smell  of  cook- 
ing. 

Syra  stood  beside  the  coffee-urn  absently  fin- 
gering a  pair  of  sugar-tongs,  and  when  Crozier 
returned  she  did  not  desist  or  look  up. 

"  You  were  rude  just  now,"  he  said  in  his  ha- 
bitual semi-bantering  way,  "I  will  return  it.     Do 


12  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

you  think  for  a  moment,  Syra,  that  I  come  here 
because  I  have  fallen  a  victim  to  your  charms  ? 
Does  11  seem  a  likely  thing  that  I  should  prefer 
this  little  room  with  its  sn.oky,  smelly  atmos- 
phere to  a  comfortable  armchair  and  an  evening 
paper  across  the  road  at  the  Club  ?" 

The  girl  threw  the  sugar-tongs  carelessly  on  to 
the  marble  counter,  where  they  fell  with  a  loud 
clang,  and  glanced  up  at  the  clock. 

"Then,"  she  said  curtly,  "you  are  watching 
him." 

"  I  am  doing  what  I  can." 

"Why  not  warn  his — his  people.?" 

He  laughed  and  contemplated  the  end  of  his 
cigar  complacently. 

"I  have  not  trodden  the  stony  paths  of  exis- 
tence for  thirty  years,  young  woman,  without 
learning  to  mind  my  own  business." 

"Which  means  that  1  will  do  well  to  mind 
mine,  1  suppose.?" 

"  Which  means  exactly  what  it  says.  What  I 
intend  to  be  understood  I  usually  say  in  a  man- 
ner which  allows  of  no  misunderstanding.  It  is 
very  good  of  you  to  think  of  the  matter  at  all. 
Be  careful!     Here  they  come!" 


CHAPTER  II 
syra's  admirers 

"  Myra's  "  was  situated  not  in  the  Strand  itself, 
but  in  a  narrow  street  running  upward  and  north- 
ward. An  old  lease,  a  central  position,  and  a 
faithful  clientele  had  combined  to  ruin  Myra's 
trim  figure  and  make  her  active  life  a  happy  one. 
Among  her  regular  patrons  were  a  few  journal- 
ists, a  few  actors,  and  a  few  engravers,  but  her 
kedge-anchor  was  Saint  Antony's.  The  students 
at  that  Samaritan  establishment  never  swerved 
from  their  devotion  to  the  little  chop-house. 
Syras  came  and  Syras  went,  but  Saint  Antony's 
remained  forever.  Rotund  and  jovial  Myra  was 
part  of  their  education,  and  in  her  motherly  way 
she  performed  a  vast  deal  of  good  among  the 
boys  learning  in  the  cheeriest  possible  manner 
the  saddest  profession  a  man  can  undertake. 

Myra  could  cook  a  chop  in  the  most  dainty 
way,  and  with  a  broad  warm  smile  she  had 
grilled  many  a  succulent  kidney  for  pale-faced 
students  whose  appetites  had  suffered  from  a 
grim  morning's  work  in  the  accident  ward. 
More  than  one  anxious  mother  to  whom  distant 
London  was  a  den  of  thieves  and  haunt  of  sirens, 
owed  an  unsuspected  debt  to  this  portly  dame. 
More  than  one  medical  student  had  been  saved 
13 


14  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

from  going  just  a  little  too  far  by  a  laughing 
word  of  caution,  delivered  with  uplifted  fork  and 
face  all  glowing  from  proximity  to  the  splutter- 
ing grill. 

It  may  be  thought  that  the  inner  room  with 
its  goddess  was  rather  a  blot  upon  the  fair 
reputation  of  "Myra's,"  but  in  excuse  there  is 
much  to  be  said.  Profits  are  large,  and  Myra 
argued  comfortably  that  if  her  supporters  did 
not  drink  there  they  would  drink  somewhere 
else.  She  was  a  remarkably  quick  reader  of 
human  faces,  and  the  young  persons  selected  to 
assume  charge  of  the  inner  bar  and  take  the 
inevitable  name  of  Syra  were  invariably  such  as 
the  stout  proprietress  ambiguously  called  ''good 
girls." 

It  will  perhaps  be  politic  to  confess  at  once 
that  Saint  Antony's  was  not  a  steady  hospital. 
The  disciples  of  the  revered  Saint  were  not 
young  men  from  whose  ranks  many  promising 
Sunday-school  teachers  could  have  been  selected, 
but  (like  many  of  us)  they  were  less  black  than 
it  was  their  good  or  evil  fortune  to  be  painted. 
Very  few  of  them  went  irretrievably  to  the  dogs. 
Hand  in  hand  and  shoulder  to  shoulder  they 
danced  merrily  enough  down  the  slope,  but  be- 
fore the  impetus  was  allowed  to  gain  mastery 
over  their  legs,  some  one  or  other  (it  was  never 
quite  known  who)  would  give  a  check  and  set 
a  firm  foot;  then  shoulder  pressed  closer  to 
shoulder  and  hand  clasped  hand  more  firmly. 


SYRA'S  ADMIRERS  13 

These  cheery  followers  of  y^sculapius  now 
trooped  through  Myra's  apartment  with  many 
an  evening  greeting  for  the  lady  herself.  The 
curtain  of  the  inner  room  was  drawn  hastily 
aside  and  a  voice  called  out — "  Syra,  my  own, 
accept  thy  slave's  devotion." 

The  man  who  spoke  entered  the  room  first. 
When  he  perceived  Crozier  the  smile  that  lighted 
up  his  sharp,  merry  face  wavered  for  a  minute, 

"  Ah,  Sam,"  he  said. 

He  was  of  medium  height,  of  slight  and 
graceful  build,  with  small,  frail  hands  and  feet. 
His  pallor,  which  was  remarkable,  had  no  dis- 
agreeable association  of  ill-health  with  it,  for  his 
complexion  was  singularly  clean  and  cream-like. 
It  was  the  steady,  unchangeable  whiteness  of  a 
refined  Italian,  which  remains  unaltered  morning, 
noon,  and  night;  through  health  and  sickness, 
through  joy  and  grief.  Seen  in  repose  the 
features  were  good;  a  small  straight  nose,  red 
lips,  and  a  dainty  chin  thrust  forward;  but  re- 
pose was  rare.  The  lips  were  always  curling  in 
laughter,  the  eyes  were  always  dancing  with 
merriment;  and  yet  he  never  laughed  aloud — 
there  was  no  voice  in  his  mirth.  He  was  clean 
shaven,  and  there  was  no  blue  shade  about  his 
lip  or  chin  to  suggest  that  a  luxuriant  growth 
of  mustache  or  beard  called  for  a  very  sharp 
razor. 

In  an  instant  his  quick  dark  eyes  lighted  upon 
the  book  which  lay  among  the  decanters  near  to 


i6  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

Syra's  hand,  and  he  turned  to  the  comrades  who 
had  followed  close  upon  his  heels. 

"Friends,  Romans,  sawbones,"  he  exclaimed 
oratorically,  "the  cat  has  escaped.  I  am  at 
liberty  to  tell  you  that  my  ship  has  come  home. 
Breathe  into  Syra's  shell-like  ear  what  your 
health  requires  and  refer  her  to  me.  To-night  I 
bury  the  scalpel  and  start  growing  an  artistic 
head  of  hair! " 

They  were  accustomed  to  surprises  of  this  de- 
scription, these  decorous  revellers.  Among  them 
were  men  who  had  already  written  books  and 
painted  pictures;  others  there  were  with  manu- 
scripts and  canvases  secretly  treasured.  Tom 
Valliant  had  made  a  hit.  All  the  better  for  Tom 
Valliant!  Drink  to  his  success  at  /2/5  expense, 
without  thought  of  envy. 

While  the  noisy  group  clustered  round  Syra 
and  peered  over  each  other's  shoulders  at  the 
book,  calling  out  their  requirements  as  they  did 
so,  Valliant  drifted  nearer  to  Crozier,  who  was 
still  sitting  on  a  high  stool  beside  the  marble 
counter  swinging  one  leg  idly. 

"Well,  Sam,"  he  said  almost  gravely,  beneath 
the  cover  of  many  voices;  "what  do  you  think 
of  it?" 

Already  he  was  looking  the  other  way,  laugh- 
ing in  his  soft,  noiseless  way  at  some  sally,  and 
his  eyes  were  still  dancing  with  merriment  when 
he  turned  again  for  Crozier's  reply. 

"It   is   good,"  said  the  singer  kindly,   "very 


SYRA'S  ADMIRERS  17 

good;  and  the  drawings  have  not  been  spoilt  by 
the  engraving.  There  is  a  long  life  in  the  future 
for  that  book." 

Valliant  seemed  scarcely  to  have  heard.  He 
was  waving  his  hand  above  his  head  to  attract 
Syra's  attention.  She  was  very  busy,  and  her 
pink  fingers  flitted  from  one  decanter  to  another 
with  marvellous  and  noiseless  celerity.  At 
length  she  looked  up,  and  Valliant  called  out, 
"  Oh,  faithless  one,  think  of  me!  " 

She  knew  only  too  well  what  he  wanted,  and 
the  little  silver  measure  came  into  use.  Her 
movements  were  so  quick  that  there  seemed 
hardly  time  for  her  to  have  measured  at  all. 

When  the  glass  was  handed  to  Valliant  he 
raised  it  and  looked  at  the  quantity  critically, 
with,  however,  the  ready  smile  in  his  eyes.  Then 
he  turned  with  mock  indignation  to  the  man 
nearest  to  him,  a  tall  and  solemn  medical  student. 

"1  really  believe,"  he  exclaimed,  "that  Syra 
gives  me  short  measure  on  purpose." 

He  took  another  glass  that  happened  to  be 
within  reach  and  held  the  two  side  by  side  above 
his  head. 

"Look  here,  you  fellows,"  he  cried;  "com- 
pare these  two,  and  tell  me  when  and  how  and 
where  I  have  done  aught  to  deserve  such  treat- 
ment from  Syra!  " 

The  men  laughed  aloud  and  groaned  in  unison, 
depreciatively,  Crozier  alone  was  grave,  but  his 
gravity  was  never  forbidding,   nor  cold;   there 


i8  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

was  a  sympathetic  warmth  about  it  which  was 
almost  as  good  as  a  smile.  He  glanced  toward 
the  girl,  and  from  his  position  at  the  end  of  the 
counter  he  could  see  her  where  she  had  laugh- 
ingly taken  refuge  behind  the  coffee-urn.  His 
deep-set  eyes  met  a  distinct  and  unmistakable 
glance  of  appeal,  which  was  more  remarkable 
from  the  usual  dulness  of  the  girl's  expression. 
Moreover  she  was  scarlet.  Syra  was  blushing  a 
deep,  painful  blush  beneath  her  powder,  such  as 
had  not  swept  upward  to  her  cheeks  for  many  a 
year. 

Then  Crozier  suddenly  joined  in  the  general 
laughter,  and  raised  his  mellow  voice  with  a 
quiet  consciousness  of  power,  a  well-founded 
knowledge  of  the  fact  that  he  would  be  heard 
and  heeded. 

"It  is,"  he  said,  "because  you  fellows  hurry 
her  so.  One  would  think  that  you  had  not  seen 
a  tumbler  or  a  wine-glass  for  months.  If  you 
want  full  measure  you  should  come  in  quietly  a& 
I  do  before  the  theatres  are  out.  I  really  think,. 
Syra,  you  ought  to  fill  that  up.' 

The  girl  took  the  glass  and  obeyed  him  with- 
out, however,  glancing  in  his  direction. 

"Mr.  Crozier,"  she  said  lightly  to  Valliant,. 
"was  accusing  me  just  now  of  being  unbusi- 
ness-like.  As  soon  as  I  display  the  true  spirit  of 
commerce,  you  pounce  upon  me." 

"Never  mind  what  he  says,  Syra,"  replied 
Valliant,  raising  the  glass  to  his  lips. 


SYRA'S  ADMIRERS  19 

He  took  a  long  draught  and  set  it  down  half 
empty.  Near  to  it  was  the  glass  of  the  solemn 
medical  student,  who  happened  to  be  looking 
the  other  way.  It  contained  much  more,  and 
with  great  gravity  Valliant  changed  the  glasses, 
keeping  the  fuller  one  for  himself. 

"Never  mind,  Syra,"  he  continued,  "1  bear  no 
malice.  I  love  my  Syra  with  an  S  because  she 
swindles.  As  a  proof  of  my  forgiveness  accept 
these  lilies  which  have  adorned  this  manly  breast 
all  the  evening." 

With  a  careless  laugh  he  turned  away,  while 
the  girl  placed  the  flowers  in  her  belt.  He  began 
gaily  discussing  a  new  play  with  one  of  the  actors 
in  it.  No  one  was  allowed  to  be  grave,  to  treat 
anything  seriously,  when  Tom  Valliant  was  near. 

Crozier  was  still  seated  at  the  end  of  the  bar, 
still  swinging  his  strong  leg  idly.  His  arm  was 
resting  on  the  counter  and  his  finger  and  thumb 
restlessly  polished  his  glass  up  and  down.  He 
was  watching  Syra  meditatively,  his  lips  slightly 
parted,  his  eyes  contracted  in  his  usual  indiffer- 
ently speculative  manner. 

"Poor  Syra!"  he  was  thinking;  "1  wonder 
how  long  she  has  been  playing  that  trick  upon 
him." 

Presently  some  new  arrivals  made  their  appear- 
ance, and  the  little  room  became  uncomfortably 
crowded.  Among  them  were  a  few  actors  of 
clean-washed  appearance  and  red-rimmed  eyes, 
but   perhaps  the  most  conspicuous  was  a  tall, 


20  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

pale-faced  youth  immaculately  dressed,  clean- 
shaven, and  aristocratic.  He  was  a  medical  stu- 
dent, the  son  of  a  well-known  west-country 
physician.  A  new  disciple  of  St.  Antony's,  and 
the  best-dressed  man  in  the  room.  Perhaps  he 
was  too  well  dressed.  His  clothes  had  not  the 
appearance  of  sitting  easily,  and  there  was  an 
awkward,  self-conscious  suggestion  of  discom- 
fort in  his  gestures.  Walter  Varden  was  a  gentle- 
man, but  he  had  the  misfortune  to  be  a  fool. 
Now,  among  ladies  a  fool  often  gets  on  very  well 
if  he  has  the  good  sense  to  stop  short  of  famil- 
iarity in  his  friendships;  but  men  soon  discover 
the  depth  or  shallowness  of  each  other's  intel- 
lects. St.  Antony's  voted  Walter  Varden  a  fool, 
and  they  were  quite  right;  but  he  was  accorded 
an  ungrudging  welcome  at  Myra's,  and  his  fool- 
ishness was  good-naturedly  ignored.  He  was  not 
in  reality  a  bad  fellow,  and  it  was  convenient  for 
the  lesser  wits  to  have  a  butt  always  at  hand 
upon  which  to  practice.  Also  he  had  plenty  of 
money,  and  was  an  easy  victim  to  borrowers. 

His  manner  of  addressing  Syra  and  the  heavy 
style  in  which  he  attempted  to  establish  a  flirta- 
tion grated  upon  the  nerves  of  some  of  the  older 
men.  He  now  came  in,  and  with  a  vacuous  nod 
for  any  one  whose  policy  it  might  be  to  wish 
him  good-evening,  leant  awkwardly  across  the 
counter  close  to  Crozier. 

"Syra,"  he  said,  mysteriously,  with  a  beckon- 
ing finger  upraised. 


SYRA'S  ADMIRERS  21 

In  a  few  moments  she  came  toward  him  with- 
out hurrying.  The  men  who  happened  to  be  near 
turned  to  hear  what  he  might  have  to  communi- 
cate. There  was  a  tacit  understanding  among 
the  admirers  of  Syra  that  no  monopoly  was  to  be 
allowed,  and  this  newcomer  seemed  inclined  to 
ignore  the  wholesome  rule. 

''Syra,"  said  Varden,  in  a  patronizingly  lowered 
voice,  "I  have  two  tickets  for  a  ball  at  the  West- 
minster town-hall  to-morrow  night;  I'll  take  you. 
There  will  not  be  a  soul  I  know  there,  and  we 
will  have  a  lark." 

She  laughed  in  her  easy  mechanical  way,  and 
turned  aside  to  attend  to  some  one  else. 

"No,  thanks,"  she  said. 

"Why  not  ?"  he  asked,  in  a  louder  tone,  quite 
content  to  impress  his  listeners  with  the  fact  that 
he  was  a  "  devil  of  a  fellow." 

She  shook  her  head  smilingly,  but  made  no 
answer. 

"No,  I  say.  Tell  me  why,"  argued  the  lady- 
killer. 

"/will  tell  you  why,"  said  Crozier,  suddenly, 
and  his  quiet  voice  caused  a  momentary  silence. 
Saint  Antony's  knew  that  Varden  was  going  to 
be  taken  down  a  peg.     "  I  will  tell  you  why!  " 

"Ouh!"  said  the  youth,  doubtfully. 

Crozier  -looked  up  at  him  with  perfect  gravity, 
without  removing  the  cigar  from  the  corner  of 
his  mouth. 

"Yes.     She  will  not  go  because  I  won't  let 


22  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

her.  Syra  never  goes  to  balls  except  with  me 
and  her  aunt,  who  is  kind  enough  to  chaperon 
us." 

There  were  a  few  moments  of  strained  silence, 
and  then  an  actor  gravely  broke  the  spell,  leaving 
Varden  quite  puzzled  as  to  whether  he  had  been 
snubbed  or  made  to  appear  a  fool. 

"  That  is  Crozier!  "  said  the  actor  in  the  back- 
ground. He  was  a  small  man  and  could  not  see 
over  his  companions'  heads.  "That  is  Crozier, 
1  am  sure.  A  song,  a  song — come  along,  old 
fellow!" 

"Yes,  a  song!  Give  us  a  song!"  called  out 
various  voices. 

Then  the  actor  who  had  first  spoken  raised  his 
voice  again. 

"Crozier  has  a  new  song,"  he  cried.  "En- 
cored seven  times  at  St.  James's  Hall  last  night. 
We'll  have  that  or  nothing,  if  he  does  not  sing 
that  we  will  chuck  him  out  of  Syra's  presence. ' 

The  heavy-featured  man  smiled  slowly  unt.. 
his  eyes  were  hardly  visible,  and  then — sitting  on 
a  high  stool  with  one  muscular  arm  resting  on 
the  marble  counter — he  raised  a  voice  that  never 
had  been  given  him  to  ruin  in  a  smoky  tap-room. 
But  it  was  not  ruined  yet,  full,  deep,  and  mellow, 
strong  when  needed,  soft  and  pathetic  by  nature, 
he  used  it  with  confidence  and  great  skill,  for  he 
had  studied  in  Naples  and  Rome. 

The  song  he  sang  was  hardly  appropriate  for 
the  occasion,  but  with  professional  wisdom  he 


SYRA'S  ADMIRERS  2} 

left  that  matter  to  his  audience.  They  had  asked 
for  the  new  ballad,  and  he  gave  it.  Perhaps 
there  was  beneath  this  strong  fellow's  cloak  of 
genial  cynicism  a  little  pride,  a  small  wish  to 
maRe  the  best  of  his  great  gift  though  it  was  only 
in  a  little  bar-parlour  in  a  quiet  street  where  the 
passers-by  would  take  him  for  some  drunken 
reveller.  Impresarios  and  managers  said  that 
Crozier  took  almost  a  delight  in  refusing  good 
offers.  His  voice  was  in  great  demand;  it  was 
at  its  full  strength,  and  equal  to  any  amount 
of  work.  Probably  there  were  men  in  that  very 
room  who  had  gladly  accepted  engagements 
laughingly  and  heedlessly  refused  by  him.  There 
were  critics  present  also,  men  who  wrote  and 
composed  and  lived  in  a  workaday  atmosphere 
of  music.  Without  accompaniment,  in  a  chok- 
ing atmosphere,  the  good-natured  singer  sang 
to  them;  good-natured,  not  because  he  was  too 
weak  to  refuse,  as  most  good-natured  people  are, 
but  because  he  could  well  afford  to  give.  No 
man  raised  glass  to  lip,  no  match  was  struck, 
and  all  smoked  noiselessly,  while  Syra  stood 
quite  still  with  her  hands  upon  the  counter  in 
front  of  the  cash-drawer  listening  to  the  words  — 

"  Greybeard  crept  through  a  village  street, 
His  head  was  bowed,  his  weary  feet 

Were  bruised  and  torn. 
A  staff  in  his  right  hand  he  bare, 
The  wind  played  with  his  silver  hair  — 
His  coat  was  worn. 


24  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURH 

Onward  he  passed  through  golden  corn. 
Weary  with  toil  from  early  morn 

He  cast  him  down. 
A  youth  and  maiden  came  along, 
Grave  she;  but  he,  with  noisy  song 

Learnt  in  the  town. 

« What  seek  you  in  this  sunny  field  ?  ' 
Greybeard,  to  whom  he  thus  appealed. 
Slow  raised  his  head  — 
*  A  Phantom  Future  I  pursue  !  ' 
****■)<■ 
'Methinks  we  seek  the  same  as  you,' 
The  maiden  said." 

When  the  applause  had  died  away,  the  occu- 
pants of  the  little  room  were  disturbed  by  the 
advent  of  Myra,  who  drew  aside  the  heavy  cur- 
tains and  stood  smiling  in  the  doorway. 

"  1  am  sorry,  gentlemen,"  she  said,  with  good- 
humoured  severity,  "but  time  is  up." 

As  they  all  trooped  out  a  few  minutes  later, 
Crozier  slipped  his  hand  through  Valliant's  arm 
with  an  undeniable  though  gentle  touch. 

"Come  to  my  rooms,"  he  said,  "and  have  a 
smoke.     I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  that  book." 


CHAPTER  III 

THE   FUTURE 

Crozier's  rooms  were  in  the  Temple.  His 
quiet,  unobtrusive  windows  looked  into  other 
quiet  unobtrusive  windows.  In  the  centre  of  the 
small  quadrangle  a  single  lime-tree  existed.  It 
never  grew  in  bulk  or  stature,  neither  did  it  die. 
Every  spring  it  unclasped  its  gummy  buds  and 
threw  a  delicate  green  reflection  upon  the  dusty 
windows.  Early  in  the  autumn  it  shed  its  leaves 
and  closed  negotiations  for  the  winter  Lime  Court 
would  have  been  a  sorry  abode  without  its  leafy 
godfather.  The  men  who  lived  there  would 
have  sorely  missed  their  connecting  link,  their 
mutual  pride,  and  topic  of  conversation.  It  was 
by  the  merest  incident  that  their  affection  for  the 
tree  was  one  day  discovered.  It  happened  that  a 
legal  cat  of  weighty  person  mounted  its  branches 
one  spring  morning  for  the  purpose  of  taking  a 
siesta  in  the  warmth  of  the  sun.  About  break- 
fast-time the  outrage  was  discovered,  and  from 
every  window  came  protestation  in  sacrificial 
form.  One  man  devoted  half  a  muffin  to  the 
cause  of  protection,  another  had  the  satisfaction 
of  dealing  a  heavy  blow  upon  the  cat's  left  ear 
with  a  dainty  slipper  worked  for  him  by  fair  and 
affectionate  fingers.  Crozier  himself  did  terrible 
2.5    - 


26  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

execution  with  a  volley  of  loaf-sugar  followed 
closely  by  the  bread-knife. 

The  rooms  were  melancholy  and  exceedingly 
comfortable,  with  thick  red  curtains,  a  number  of 
low  armchairs,  and  a  subtle  homely  odour  of 
tobacco  smoke  in  the  atmosphere. 

Valliant  entered  the  sitting-room  first  and 
turned  up  the  gas  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  is 
quite  at  home  and  amidst  familiar  surroundings. 
A  few  letters  lay  upon  the  table,  and  nodding  his 
head  toward  them  he  turned  and  walked  toward 
the  fire. 

''Billets-doux !"  he  said,  lightly;  "you  had 
better  read  them  while  my  back  is  turned,  so  that 
I  may  be  spared  the  sight  of  a  blush  upon  that 
cheek! " 

He  turned  his  back  toward  the  room  and  stood 
with  one  foot  upon  the  fender  gazing  into  the 
fire,  while  he  sought  slowly  in  his  pockets  for 
pipe  and  pouch.  The  fire^  dancing  and  flicker- 
ing, showed  his  face  to  be  quite  grave,  almost 
melancholy. 

"  More  likely  to  be  bills,"  muttered  Crozier,  as 
he  stood  with  his  hands  thrust  into  his  pockets, 
gazing  speculatively  and  lazily  at  the  envelopes. 

"Then  do  not  open  them,  that  these  ears  may 
be  spared  the  shock  of  an  expletive." 

Crozier  sat  down  slowly  and  comfortably  in  a 
deep  soft  armchair.  He  left  the  letters  lying  on 
the  table,  and  raised  his  close-set  and  earnest 
eyes  toward  his  companion. 


THE  FUTURE  27 

"Well,"  he  inquired,  "  wliat  is  the  next 
move  ?" 

Valliant  turned  and  looked  down  at  him  with 
a  bright  smile. 

"The  next  move  is  to  fill  my  pipe,"  he  an- 
swered, "and  then  suggest  that  you  should  lend 
me  a  match." 

This  brought  forth  no  smile.  A  solemn  humour 
had  come  over  the  singer.  He  was  determined 
to  make  Valliant  talk  sensibly  of  his  affairs. 

"Are  you  going  to  give  up  medicine?"  he 
asked  pleasantly. 

The  younger  man  lighted  his  pipe. 

"There  is  some  vast  idea  surging  about  in  your 
brain,  Sam.  Let  us  have  it.  You  will  feel  all  the 
better  for  it,  my  boy !  " 

He  sat  down  in  a  deep  chair,  and  stretched  his 
slight  legs  out  with  a  jerk.  Crozier  took  the  pipe 
from  his  lips  and  spoke  slowly,  with  a  grave- 
masterfulness  that  betrayed  his  wish  to  act  well, 
by  his  young  friend. 

"That  book,"  he  said,  "will  be  all  over  the 
country  in  a  few  weeks.  You  must  follow  it  up. 
A  man  with  a  talent  like  that  has  no  right  to  neg- 
lect it.  His  duty  toward  himself  and  the  public 
is  to  make  the  most  of  it,  cultivate  it,  and  im- 
prove it.     .     .     .     What  are  you  grinning  at  .^"^ 

"Stone-throwing  is  a  risky  pastime,"  explained 
Valliant,  with  a  light  laugh. 

"It  does  not  matter  when  all  the  panes  are. 
broken,"  replied  the  singer. 


28  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

For  an  instant  Valliant  looked  grave.  He 
-•changed  his  position  slightly,  and  pressed  thd 
burning  tobacco  into  his  pipe  with  the  end  of  a 
cedar-wood  pencil. 

"  Are  they  broken,  Sam  .?"  he  asked  seriously. 

"1  don't  know,"  replied  Crozier,  Vv/ith  a  smile. 
'•  It  feels  a  little  draughty  at  times.  But  that  is 
not  the  point.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  time  has 
ncome  for  you  to  look  seriously  to  the  future.  One 
iiundred  and  twenty  pounds  a  year  is  not  a  bad 
income  for  a  medical  student,  but  it  is  not  much 
for  a  man  of  twenty-five.  If  you  are  going  to 
stick  to  the  bone-sawing  business  it  is  time  you 
began  to  work,  and  make  a  name  at  the  hospital. 
If  not,  you  ought  to  throw  aside  the  whole  affair 
at  once,  and  take  to  art  as  a  profession! " 

"A  profession,"  .  .  .  echoed  Valliant.  "A 
profession  is  a  thing  that  a  man  spends  the  best 
years  of  his  life  in  learning,  and  by  the  time  he 
is  sick  of  the  whole  business  he  begins  to  make  a 
small  income  by  it." 

"  You  are  speaking  of  men  who  are  driven  into 
a  profession  when  they  are  too  young  to  know 
Avhat  they  are  about." 

"  Seems  to  me  I  am  being  driven  at  the  present 
moment." 

"Not  by  me,"  said  Crozier,  gravely,  "but  by 
the  force  of  circumstances." 

Valliant  moved  uneasily,  and  smoked  in  silence 
iind  hastily  for  some  moments.  Once  or  twice 
his  quick  gay  eyes  rested  on  his  companion's  face. 


THE  FUTURE  29 

This  man  of  thirty  had  quietly  assumed  a  place  im 
his  existence  during  the  last  four  years.  Before 
that  he  had  not  known  him,  and  the  remembrance 
of  his  first  impression  was  still  a  tangible  thought. 
To  the  youthful  man  of  twenty-one  this  grave 
singer  had  at  first  appeared  to  be  much  more  tham 
five  years  his  senior.  But  Crozier  had  never  lost 
sight  of  him,  never  made  one  backward  step  ir6 
the  steady  progress  of  friendship.  The  disparity 
in  years  never  disappeared,  but  it  came  to  be  a 
tacitly  recognized  thing,  and  one  that  conveyed  no 
sense  of  discomfort  or  estrangement  with  it.  It  was 
part  of  their  friendship.  Crozier  neglected,  perhaps 
purposely,  one  great  aid  to  mutual  sympathy. 
He  rarely  spoke  of  himself,  and  never  compared 
Valliant's  escapades,  of  which  he  heard  sooner  or 
later,  with  similar  experiences  passed  through  by 
himself  in  earlier  years.  And  yet  Valliant  never 
doubted  that  his  grave  friend  had  many  strange 
passages  in  life  of  which  he  could  have  told. 
There  was  about  his  strong  immobile  face  a  quiet 
suggestion  of  experience.  The  man  had  evidently 
passed  through  the  mill,  and  the  result  was  by 
no  means  a  failure.  He  was  a  little  hardened,  a 
little  sceptical;  perhaps  a  trifle  aimless,  but  the 
true  metal  was  close-knit  and  bright  beneath  the 
outward  coat  of  indifference. 

At  length  Valliant  spoke,  with  a  faint  under- 
note  of  humour  in  the  sound  of  his  momentarily 
grave  voice. 

"That  old  gentleman,"  he  said,    "of  whom 


30  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

you  sang  this  evening — with  the  worn  coat  and 
the  silver  hair — was  probably  a  professional 
man." 

Crozier  made  no  reply  for  some  minutes,  and 
+he  only  sound  that  broke  the  silence  of  Lime 
Court  was  the  distant  note  of  a  cat  stridently  la- 
menting its  lot.  Presently  a  second  feline  voice 
Joined  in  harmoniously. 

"The  waits!  "  suggested  Valliant  in  a  whisper, 
^vith  an  irrepressible  twinkle  in  his  eye. 

His  companion  smiled,  and  roused  himself  sud- 
denly from  his  reverie. 

"  If  you  won't  take  to  art  as  a  profession,"  he 
said  briskly,  "  take  to  it  as  an  amusement.  You 
'will  do  better  amusing  yourself  with  art  than 
busying  yourself  with  medicine." 

"  1  hate  making  plans.  Life  is  but  a  fleeting 
shadow,  Samuel." 

"So  do  I,  for  myself.  There  is  a  sort  of  mel- 
ancholy satisfaction,  however,  about  making  them 
for  other  people,  because  one  is  perfectly  sure  that 
they  never  will  be  carried  out.  If  you  are  not 
going  to  make  plans,  what  do  you  propose  doing  ? 
Allow  other  folks  to  make  them  for  you,  or 
drift  ? " 

"Drift." 

Again  Crozier  thought  deeply,  while  the  smoke 
rose  slowly  in  reflective  clouds  from  his  lips  to 
the  dusky  ceiling. 

"I  have  done  a  good  deal  of  that  in  my  time," 
lie  murmured.     "  It  is  not  satisfactory  work.     My 


THE  FUTURE  31 

idea  is,  that  you  ought  to  go  down  to  Goldheath 
to-morrow  with  the  book  under  your  arm.  Show 
it  to  your  uncle,  Mrs.  Valliant,  and — and  your 
cousin,  and  hear  what  they  have  to  say  on  the 
subject." 

"Where  is  that  copy  you  had  this  evening .^'^ 
asked  Valliant,  with  a  peculiar  ring  in  his  voice., 
while  he  glanced  round  the  room. 

"  1  gave  it  to  Syra,     She  asked  for  it." 

Again  a  silence,  broken  only  by  the  distant; 
cats,  fell  upon  the  room. 

"The  waits  again!  "  suggested  Valliant, 

This  time  Crozier  laughed  suddenly,  and  withi 
unnecessary  loudness.  The  smoke  no  longer  rose 
from  his  lips  for  the  pipe  had  gone  out. 

"1  might  send  them  the  book,"  continued  the 
younger  man. 

"  \Vhy  not  go  down  ?  " 

Valliant's  quick  glance  rested  for  an  instant  ors 
his  friend's  face. 

"Goldheath  is  a  lovely  place,"  he  said  with  ai 
smile,  "but  the  wind  blows  across  that  moor  like 
a  knife.  Besides,  it  is  a  trifle  dull  at  this  time  of 
year." 

The  singer  relighted  his  pipe  and  leant  far 
back  in  his  chair,  thus  concealing  his  face.  His. 
legs  were  crossed,  and  one  foot  swung  in  a 
thoughtless  and  indifferent  way. 

"  It  would  be  of  no  use  sending  the  book  un- 
less you  went  yourself.  There  must  be  a  lot  to 
tell  about  it,  and  of  course  thev  will  want  to  hear 


^2  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

everything,"  he  said  in  a  steady,  business-like 
tone. 

It  almost  seemed  as  if  the  mere  mention  of 
Goldheath  had  caused  a  change  to  come  over 
the  humour  of  both  men.  There  was  in  the 
manner  of  their  conversation  a  subtle  and  almost 
intangible  sense  of  embarrassment. 

"  Oh,  there  is  not  much  to  tell,"  said  Valliant, 
speaking  rapidly.  "In  fact  .  .  .  Elma  .  .  . 
has  seen  a  good  many  of  the  sketches  before  I 
had  any  idea  of  selling  them,  you  know,  I  did 
most  of  them  at  Goldheath,  and  finished  them 
here.  The  house  appears  several  times  and 
.     .     .     and  Elma." 

"Yes,  1  know." 

Crozier's  voice  was  drowsy.  One  would  al- 
most have  said  that  he  was  half-asleep,  but  his 
foot  swung  still. 

"You  recognized  it.^" 

"Yes,  1  recognized  them." 

"Them.^" 

"The  house  and  .  .  .  your  cousin,"  ex- 
plained Crozier. 

Then  they  smoked  pensively  until  the  singei 
left  his  chair  and  went  to  the  fireplace,  where  he 
pressed  the  burning  embers  down  with  his  foot. 

"I  think  they  would  feel  it  rather  strange  if 
you  simply  sent  the  book  by  post.  It  is  a  long 
time  since  you  were  there." 

Valliant  was  wavering.  Beneath  his  airy  man- 
ner there  was  a  strong  will,   but  he  knew  that 


THE  FUTURE  33 

Crozier  would  ultimately  achieve  his  purpose. 
He  invariably  did  so  when  he  took  the  trouble 
to  be  determined — to  exert  his  strong  fixity  of 
purpose. 

"If  I  go,"  he  said,  "you  must  come  too,  and 
sing  them  that  song  before  I  produce  the  book." 

"Which  song  ?" 

"That  one  about  the  old  gentleman." 

"  Why  should  1  sing  that  ?  "  asked  Crozier,  dis- 
playing very  slight  interest. 

Valliant  rose  suddenly  and  sought  his  hat  and 
stick.  He  stood  in  front  of  his  friend,  ready  to 
go,  with  his  pipe  slightly  elevated  and  his  small 
chin  thrust  forward.  He  leant  upon  his  stick 
and  looked  down  at  Crozier  with  a  gay  smile. 

"Because  they  will  be  wanting  me  to  waste 
the  living  present  in  the  pursuit  of  the  wildest 
goose  a  man  can  chase." 

The  singer  rose  and  look  his  companion's  out- 
stretched hand. 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  he  asked,  without  meeting 
his  friend's  eyes. 

"A  phantom  future,"  laughed  Valliant. 

Crozier  followed  him  to  the  door.  He  went 
out  into  the  little  entrance-hall  where  their  foot- 
steps echoed  weirdly.  He  held  open  the  street- 
door  and  Valliant  passed  down  the  worn  steps 
into  the  darkness  of  Lime  Court. 

"Tom!  "  cried  Crozier  suddenly, 

"Yes."  The  reply  came  back  softly  and  the 
singer  knew  that  his  friend  was  grave  for  once. 


34  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

When  he  spoke,  however,  there  was  in  his  tone 
the  old  sound  of  grave  badinage. 

"  Were  you  ever  a  cricketer  ?  " 

"  1  used  to  bowl  wides  at  one  time." 

"When  1  was  a  kid,"  continued  Crozier,  "I 
used  to  keep  wicket.  I  thought  I  did  it  very 
well.  At  first  I  was  in  the  habit  of  not  raising 
my  hand  until  the  batsman  missed  the  ball;  the 
consequence  was  that  I  got  a  good  many  in  the 
eye  and  quite  a  number  in  the  chest.  Then  I 
learnt  to  make  a  grab  at  every  ball  as  if  the  bats- 
man were  not  there  at  all.  Seems  to  me  that  a 
little  wicket-keeping  is  good  training.  It  is  best 
to  grab  at  everything  and  pretend  to  ignore  the 
possible  obstacles." 

Valliant  stood  with  his  hands  thrust  deeply 
into  the  pockets  of  his  light  coat,  his  stick  under 
his  arm  and  his  hat  slightly  tilted  backward.  He 
looked  quizzically  up  at  his  friend  who  stood  in 
the  doorway. 

"Is  that  all  ?  "  he  asked. 

"That  is  all." 

"Thanks.  1  will  make  a  note  of  it  on  my 
cuff." 

He  performed  a  pas-seul  upon  the  pavement 
and  presently  walked  off. 

"Good-night,  Samuel,"  he  called  out  over  his 
shoulder. 

"  Good-night,"  said  the  mellow  voice  from  the 
doorstep. 


CHAPTER  IV 

GOLDHEATH 

Where  Sussex  merges  into  Surrey  there  lies  a 
vast  sweeping  moorland,  where  heather  and 
gorse  and  whin  hold  united  sway.  All  the 
chemical  fertilizers  yet  invented,  were  they 
combined  and  shaken  up  in  one  malodorous 
sack,  could  not  spoil  this  golden  land.  The 
august  body  which  calls  itself  the  Royal  Agri- 
cultural Society  could  make  nothing  out  of  it.  A 
steeple-chase,  a  coursing  meeting,  or  a  ramble, 
but  never  a  turnip,  has  been  associated  with 
Goldheath. 

Over  the  low  broken  hill,  two  miles  away, 
there  is  indeed  a  railway-station  on  the  main 
line  between  Portsmouth  and  London;  but  the 
quick  trains  never  stop  there,  and  the  local  traffic 
is  limited.  Once  a  week  the  station-master  is 
kept  out  of  bed  until  eleven  o'clock  at  night  to 
await  the  arrival  of  a  goods  train  which  drops 
one  or  two  trucks  carrving  chemical  manure,  and 
biscuits,  cheese,  ploughshares,  and  haberdashery. 

Goldheath  has  the  good  fortune  to  lie  well 
away  from  the  coach-road.  The  lanes  are  nar- 
row and  ill-kept,  consequently  the  ubiquitous 
bicyclist  is  rarely  met.  The  little  village  lying 
on  the  westward  slope  of  a  long  sweeping  hill 
35 


36  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

gazes  meditatively  down  upon  the  broad  nnoor, 
of  which  the  farthest  Hmit  is  lost  upon  the  blue 
slope  of  a  distant  range. 

To  the  south  the  moorland  is  bordered  by  a 
pine  forest,  beyond  which  are  meadows,  and  in 
the  distance  arable  land.  At  the  edge  of  this 
forest  lies  Goldheath  Court,  a  long  low  house 
composed  of  a  series  of  gables.  It  is  built  of  red 
brick,  which  age  has  softened  and  beautified  as 
it  softens  and  beautifies  all  things  of  which  the 
angles  are  too  sharp  and  cutting;  including  men 
and  women.  The  northern  facade  looks  across  a 
large  though  scantily  furnished  orchard,  toward 
the  moor,  which  is  divided  (as  well  as  the  orchard) 
by  a  narrow  gravelled  road  drawn  in  a  deadly 
straight  line  from  the  last  house  in  the  village  to 
the  front-door  of  Goldheath  Court.  This  same 
broad  door  is  the  only  outlet  from  the  northern 
side,  while  to  the  east  and  south  every  ground- 
floor  window  is,  so  to  speak,  a  door. 

All  round  the  house  there  is  a  narrow  pave- 
ment of  green  and  moss-grown  stone  extending 
for  some  three  feet  outward.  Before  the  library 
window  to  the  east,  and  the  two  drawing-room 
windows  to  the  south,  this  stone  pavement  is 
worn  white  by  friction,  and  there  are  small 
rounded  indentations  (where  the  rain  collects) 
showing  that  the  inhabitants  of  Goldheath  Court 
are  in  the  habit  of  passing  freely  in  and  out  of 
the  windows. 

The  eastward  end  of  the  house  looks  into  what 


GOLDHEATH  37 

is,  or  was  a  few  years  ago,  called  the  Walled 
Garden.  From  the  northeastern  angle  to  the 
southeastern  a  high  brick  wall  extended  in  a  circle, 
broken  only  by  a  trellised  door  upon  the  north, 
and  another  upon  the  south,  of  which  the  inner 
posts  were  fixed  against  the  house  itself.  To 
pass  through  one  of  those  trellised  doors  is  to 
step  back  one  hundred  and  fifty  years  into  the 
past.  Within  that  circle  a  quaint  old-day  peace- 
fulness  and  melancholy  reign  supreme.  Against 
the  dull  red  wall  are  climbing  now,  gnarled  and 
crooked  pear-trees,  of  which  the  branches  have 
been  pressed  by  feet  once  lithe  and  tiny,  now 
mouldering  beneath  the  sand  of  Goldheath 
churchyard.  Here  grow  quaint  old-fashioned 
flowers,  simple  briar-roses  and  sturdy  tufts  of 
lavender.  But  the  pride  of  the  Walled  Garden 
is  the  huge  cedar  in  the  centre,  near  the  fountain, 
which  played  spasmodically  thirty  years  ago 
when  old  Valliant  brought  home  his  wife. 
Around  the  cedar  grows  a  strange  and  wondrous 
assortment  of  conifers  and  leafy  evergreens. 
Weymouth  pines  and  spruce  overshadow  arbutus 
and  laurel,  while  a  tall  straight  larch  drops  its 
brown  needles  upon  the  repelling  arms  of  a 
monkey-puzzle,  disfiguring  it  sorely.  Even  in 
February — Nature's  dullest  season — the  library 
window  looks  upon  a  pleasant  verdure. 

Within  the  northern  curve  of  the  wall  is  en- 
sconced the  old  violet-bed,  now  carefully  pro- 
tected by  straw,  and  here,  crouching  carelessly 


38  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

upon  the  gravel-walk,  a  little  maiden  sat  one 
sunny  morning.  With  her  chilled  pink  fingers 
she  was  routing  about  among  the  straw  for  the 
short-stalked,  deep-coloured  flowers;  for  the 
white  violets  were  not  budding  yet. 

Presently  she  rose  and  shook  her  skirts  free  of 
dead  leaf  and  dust,  and  also  a  little  dry  and 
powdery  snow  which  had  collected  beneath  the 
box  border.  She  was  of  medium  height,  with 
slight  square  shoulders  as  straight  as  an  arrow. 
A  girlish  form  that  might  have  been  the  growth 
of  seventeen  or  eighteen  years,  clad  in  woolly 
blue  serge,  with  a  black  leatlier  belt.  Elma 
Valliant  was  almost  twenty-one,  but  her  youth- 
ful figure  and  eyes  were  those  of  a  schoolgirl. 
Behind  such  eyes  as  hers,  woman's  brain  can 
think  wondrous  thoughts  and  never  betray  them. 
Daring  and  demure,  innocent  and  wicked  by 
turns,  they  changed  colour  strangely  by  artificial 
light.  By  day  they  were  light  in  colour  of  a 
blue  hovering  into  gray.  At  night  the  pupil 
dilated  greatly,  and  her  eyes  were  deep,  and 
dark.  Very  eloquent  they  might  be  some  day, 
but  now  they  only  spoke  of  lighter  things;  pass- 
ing sorrow  and  ready  laughter.  Her  hair  had 
been  flaxen  at  one  time,  but  it  was  slowly  dark- 
ening, while  sudden  gleams  of  gold  lurked  in  the 
stray  curls  near  her  ears,  or  lo-w  down  her  neck. 
She  was  generally  in  a  hurry,  and  her  hair  suf- 
fered most  becomingly  from  this  characteristic. 

While    she   was   walking    slowly   round    the 


GOLDHEATH  39 

circular  path  toward  the  hbrary  window  which 
stood  open,  she  arranged  deftly  in  a  small  bunch 
the  violets  she  had  just  picked.  In  passing  the 
trellised  door  she  glanced  through  the  open  wood- 
work and  saw  the  old  postman  slowly  making 
his  way  up  the  straight  avenue  of  Weymouth 
pines,  which  stood  gauntly  among  the  leafless 
fruit-trees  of  the  orchard. 

Then  she  opened  the  garden-door  and  ran  down 
the  avenue  to  meet  the  ancient  letter-carrier, 
whose  rheumatism  suddenly  acquired  acute 
severity  at  the  sight  of  her.  Every  step  of  her 
light  foot  saved  him  two. 

"Good-morning,  Anson,"  she  panted. 

"Good-morning,  Miss  Elmy.  Here's  a  bright 
morning  to  be  sure.  A  lot  o'  letters  this  morn- 
ing I  do  think,  and  one  from  Master  Tom." 

The  rosy  tint  upon  her  cheeks  lost  nothing: 
perhaps  it  deepened  slightly. 

"  A  letter  from  Tom.  Oh,  1  am  so  glad,"  she 
exclaimed. 

"To  be  sure,"  replied  the  postman,  as  with 
quavering  hands  clad  in  ancient  leathern  gloves, 
he  assorted  his  homoeopathic  stock  of  corre- 
spondence. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  taking  the  letters  and 
her  father's  newspaper  with  its  printed  wrapper. 
"Yes,  Anson,  you  are  right;  this  is  from  Master 
Tom!  " 

The  old  man  lingered,  gazing  at  her  flushed 
face  beneath  his  shaggy  eyebrows,  very  kindly. 


40  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

"I  suppose  he'll  be  coming  down  to  see  us, 
Miss.  He's  not  been  near  us  for  many  months 
now." 

"  No  doubt !  "  she  replied.  ' '  He  seldom  writes 
unless  he  is  coming.  He  is  very  bad  at  writing, 
you  know,  and  gives  you  very  little  work,  An- 
son." 

"I  wish,  Miss  Elmy,"  said  the  old  man  gravely, 
"  he'd  give  me  a  bit  more;  I  do,  indeed." 

He  was  not  looking  at  her  now,  but  was  busy 
with  his  large  canvas  letter-bag.  Without  look- 
ing up  he  continued, 

"I  wonder  now  if  Mr.  Crozier's  coming  with 
him  this  time." 

"I  do  not  know,  1  am  sure,  Anson,"  replied 
the  girl,  reading  the  printed  address  upon  the 
newspaper  wrapper. 

The  old  man  turned  a  little  and  looked  across 
the  moorland,  now  bleak  and  brown  with  patches 
of  dry  powdery  snow  here  and  there,  toward 
the  village. 

"The  old  church  doesn't  seem  the  same,"  he 
said  reflectively,  "without  a  Crozier  to  preach 
the  word  to  us  o'  Sundays.  Master  Sam  ought'er 
been  there,  Miss,  to  be  sure  he  ought." 

The  girl  laughed.  A  moment  before  she  had 
been  on  the  point  of  turning  to  go.  Now  she 
stood  and  looked  across  the  moor. 

"  1  do  not  think  Mr.  Crozier  would  have  made 
a  good  parson,  Anson,"  she  said  lightly. 

"Perhaps    not,     perhaps     not.     Miss     Elmy. 


GOLDHEATH  41 

Though  to  be  sure,  none  can  tell  what's  inside  a 
man  till  the  husk  has  been  scraped  a  bit.  But 
he's  a  main  good  fellow,  a  main  good  fellow, 
Miss  Elmy." 

"Yes,  Anson,"  she  said  indifferently  as  she 
turned  to  go.     "Good-morning." 

"Good-morning,  Miss  Elmy,"  replied  the  old 
man. 

The  girl  walked  slowly  up  the  narrow  avenue 
toward  the  peaceful  old  house.  There  were  two 
or  three  other  letters,  but  that  from  Tom  Valliant 
received  her  undivided  attention. 

"I  wonder,"  she  murmured,  "if  he  is  coming 
on  Saturday!  This  is  Wednesday — three  whole 
days  before  then!" 

She  suddenly  drew  up  the  soft  woollen  shawl 
which  had  fallen  a  little  from  her  shoulders,  and 
began  running  toward  the  trellised  gate  into  the 
walled  garden.  In  the  library  she  found  her 
father,  who  was  carefully  airing  the  local  morn- 
ing paper  before  the  fire. 

"There  is  a  letter  from  Tom,"  she  cried  out 
gleefully,  as  she  fastened  the  window. 

"  Ah,  1  am  glad  of  it." 

With  these  words  the  heavily-built  man  turned 
toward  his  daughter  with  a  smile  of  sincere 
pleasure  upon  his  broad  and  honest  English  face. 
He  pressed  his  right  hand  into  the  small  of  his 
back — if  the  word  "small  "  be  allowed  to  pass — 
and  grunted;  then  he  crossed  the  room  slowly 
and  kissed  his  daughter;   straightening   himself 


42  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

afterward  with  another  grunt.  Elma  was  appar- 
ently accustomed  to  these  sounds  of  anguish,  for 
the  smile  never  left  her  face.  Squire  Valliant 
had  the  habit  of  grunting  until  eleven  o'clock  in 
the  morning;  after  that  he  forgot  his  lumbago, 
which  was  laid  aside  until  bedtime.  At  ten 
o'clock  at  night  he  invariably  recollected  to  place 
his  hand  once  more  in  the  centre  of  his  back 
and  groan,  the  precise  moment  of  this  occurrence 
being  usually  when  he  began  to  mount  the  broad 
stairs,  candle  in  hand. 

He  nowsought  vigourously  in  the  region  of  his 
throat  for  the  string  of  an  eye-glass  which  had  as 
usual  been  tucked  into  his  waistcoat  with  the 
•end  of  his  black  tie.  Having  fixed  the  glass  in 
his  eye,  he  took  the  letters  from  his  daughter's 
hand. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  holding  one  up  to  the  light; 
^'that  is  from  Tom,  undoubtedly;  that  is  from 
Tom.  Your  scapegrace  of  a  cousin  has  remem- 
bered his  relations  at  last.  Eh,  little  woman,  eh  ? 
ha,  ha! " 

He  chuckled  and  presently  threw  the  letter 
down  upon  the  breakfast-table. 

"But,"  he  said  simply,  "it  is  addressed  to 
your  mother,  so  we  must  leave  it  till  she  comes 
down.''' 

Elma  was  engaged  in  spreading  out  the  Lon- 
don newspaper.  It  was  one  of  her  daily  duties 
to  smooth  it  out  and  cut  the  pages  for  her  father's 
convenience  in  reading,     if  Squire  Valliant  was 


GOLDHEATH  43 

deprived  of  his  morning's  paper  he  remembered 
his  lumbago,  and  grunted  all  day. 

"I  wonder,"  said  the  girl  absently,  "if  they 
are  coming  at  the  end  of  the  week." 

"Who.^"  inquired  her  father  carelessly,  while 
he  lifted  the  cover  off  the  dish  set  before  him. 

"Tom,  I  mean,"  she  replied  rather  hurriedly; 
"I  wonder  if  he  is  coming  at  the  end  of  the 
week." 

The  squire  made  no  reply  just  then.  He  was 
a  slow  thinker,  this  honest  country  gentleman. 
Born  and  bred  amidst  these  low  open  hills  he 
had  acquired  a  certain  love  of  openness,  and 
never  sought  for  motives  in  the  thoughts  or 
words  of  others,  as  townsmen  love  to  do.  Elma's 
little  slip  had  been  a  slip  and  nothing  else,' and  so 
he  thought  no  more  about  it,  but  turned  his  at- 
tention to  the  domestic  arrangements  for  the  end 
of  the  week. 

"  Is  there  anything  arranged  for  Saturday — any 
one  coming,  I  mean  ?  "  he  asked. 

The  girl  seated  herself  beside  the  fire,  crouch- 
ing low  upon  the  fender,  and  holding  her  hands 
to  the  warmth. 

"I  believe,"  she  replied,  "that  mother  asked 
Willy  Holdsworth  to  lunch  if  it  proves  too  hard 
for  hunting.  He  expects  a  friend,  a  Mr.  Varden,. 
and  does  not  know  how  to  amuse  him." 

"  Hunting!"  muttered  the  squire,  and  then  he 
laughed,  and  was  pulled  up  suddenly  by  a  vio- 
lent fit  of  coughing,  of  which,  however,  he  made 


44  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

the  most,  holding  his  back  and  making  a  great 
to-do  with  his  lips.  "Hunting!"  he  gasped; 
"' Holdsworth's  hunting  is  a  regular  farce.  He 
rides  like  a  sailor." 

The  girl  looked  quickly  across  the  table.  Her 
eyes  rested  for  a  moment  upon  her  father's  face. 
The  old  gentleman  sought  vigourously  for  a 
pocket-handkerchief  in  the  tail  of  his  gray  tweed 
coat  and  wiped  his  mustache  noisily  with  a 
flourish. 

"  He  does  many  things  like  a  sailor,"  said  Elma 
carelessly. 

"No  harm  in  that;  I've  known  some  good 
men  in  my  time  who  were  sailors." 

She  looked  into  the  fire  for  some  moments  be- 
fore answering.  There  was  wonder  in  her  eyes, 
and  she  rubbed  one  hand  slowly  over  the  back 
of  the  other  which  lay  upon  her  lap. 

"  Yes,"  she  acquiesced,  "but    .     .    ." 

"But  what.?" 

"  I  wonder  where  he  learnt  to  do  things  like  a 
sailor." 

The  squire  smiled  a  little  grimly,  and  pushing 
Iiis  chair  back  from  the  table  crossed  his  legs. 
Then  he  glanced  at  his  huge,  old-fashioned 
■watch.  Mrs.  Valliant  was  already  five  minutes 
late  for  breakfast,  and  everything  was  getting 
cold,  for  the  air  was  sharp;  but  there  seemed  to 
be  no  question  of  beginning  the  meal  without 
her. 

"Better  not  inquire,"  he  said,  "  better  not  in- 


GOLDHEATH  45 

quire,  I  think.  When  a  man  disappears  for  eight 
years  and  comes  back  with  his  hair  very  neat, 
and  a  devil-may-care  self-possession  about  him, 
it  is  best  not  to  ask  where  he  has  been.  He  is 
very  steady  now,  and  he  is  very  good  to  the  old 
people.  The  past  must  be  allowed  to  go  un- 
questioned, but  .  .  .  but  he  can't  ride. 
Can't  ride  a  bit!  " 

There  was  in  the  old  man's  tone  a  suspicion  of 
forced  charity,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  make  the 
best  of  a  poor  bargain,  which  his  daughter  did 
not  fail  to  detect.  She  was  a  little  country 
maiden,  not  greatly  experienced,  not  too  wise 
perhaps;  and  the  mysterious  portion  of  her  old 
playmate's  life  interested  her.  It  is  a  lamentable 
fact  that  a  man,  if  he  is  known  to  have  been  or 
to  be  a  rake,  arouses  an  interest  in  the  hearts  of 
most  women  by  reason  of  his  reputation,  and  it 
was  something  of  this  spirit  that  caused  Elma 
Valliant's  thoughts  to  turn  repeatedly  toward 
William  Holdsworth. 

At  this  moment,  however,  the  girl  heard  her 
mother's  step  in  the  long  corridor,  and  rose  from 
her  crouching  position  without  undue  haste,  but 
in  time  to  be  standing  up  before  Mrs.  Valliant 
entered  the  room. 

Mrs.  Valliant  was  rather  a  colourless  little 
woman;  a  worthy  representative  of  a  generation 
which  was  in  reality  more  heartless  and  colder 
than  the  present,  although  it  is  not  the  fashion  to 
believe  so.     She  had  married  late  in  life,  after 


46  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

having  ruled  for  some  years  a  spinster  household 
of  her  own,  and  thus  had  contracted  views  and 
habits  of  thought  which  clung  to  her  still.  Nev- 
ertheless she  was  in  her  way  a  good  woman. 
Thoroughly  conscientious,  truly  dutiful  and 
strictly  just,  but  heartless.  Heartless  in  her  love, 
heartless  in  her  hatred.  Smiling  rarely,  weeping 
never. 

The  household  arrangements  were  conducted 
with  a  rigid  regard  for  precedent  and  custom 
which  was  characteristic  of  the  mistress.  The 
heartless  little  woman  was  in  fact  an  excellent 
housekeeper,  loving  punctuality  at  all  times  ex- 
cept breakfast,  for  she  was  a  bad  riser,  exercising 
a  ruthless  economy,  and  taking  care  to  provide 
such  dishes  as  pleased  her  husband's  taste  with  a 
punctilious  disregard  for  her  own  opinion  upon 
the  matter. 

Elma  was  the  scapegrace  of  the  family.  She 
was  invariably  down  in  time  for  breakfast;  but 
thepe  was  no  merit  in  that,  for  her  mother  was 
usually  late,  and  at  other  meals  she  was  often  in 
•default.  It  will  be  remembered  that  she  rose 
somewhat  hurriedly  from  her  graceful  but  ''un- 
finished" posture  on  the  fender  before  her 
mother  entered  the  room. 

Mrs.  Valliant  attended  to  her  duties  in  connec- 
tion with  breakfast  before  looking  at  her  letters. 
Then  she  opened  Tom's  envelope  first  and  pro- 
ceeded to  read  the  contents  with  a  vague  smile. 
Tom  Valliant  was,  perhaps,  the  only  human  be- 


GOLDHEATH  47 

ing  in  her  circle  of  friends  and  relations  who  was 
not  wholesomely  afraid  of  the  mistress  of  Gold- 
heath. 

Presently  she  laid  the  letter  down  beside  her 
plate  and  said  — 

"Tom  asks  if  he  may  come  on  Saturday — he 
and  Samuel  Crozier." 

The  squire  nodded  his  head. 

"Ah!"  he  said,  in  a  tone  which  committed 
him  neither  to  approval  nor  otherwise  until  his 
wife's  opinion  had  been  received. 

"William  Holdsworth  and  his  friend  Mr.. 
Varden  are  coming  to  lunch,"  said  Mrs.  Valliant. 
"  It  will  be  rather  heavy  for  the  servants,  but  we 
must  manage  as  best  we  can." 

Very  few  arrangements  were  completed  with- 
out some  reference  to  the  servants  by  Mrs.  Val- 
liant.  She  regulated  her  life  with  a  view  of  suit- 
ing their  convenience,  whilst  their  opinion  was. 
invariably  quoted  and  considered.  She  was, 
nevertheless,  a  strict  mistress,  and  rarely  kept 
her  domestics  for  any  length  of  time. 


CHAPTER  V 

OLD  SHIPMATES 

On  the  Saturday  morning,  before  the  dissipated 
denizens  of  Lime  Court  were  astir,  the  silence  of 
that  sacred  nook  was  broken  by  a  sharp,  Ught 
footstep.  Tom  Valliant,  although  a  high-spirited 
man  among  his  companions,  was  by  no  means 
given  to  a  display  of  hilarity  when  alone.  He 
never  whistled  merry  airs  for  his  own  edification, 
and  never  sang  gently  as  Crozier  was  in  the  habit 
of  doing  when  in  his  bedroom. 

However,  on  this  bright  February  morning  the 
medical  student  felt  unusually  gay.  A  slight 
frost  had  cleared  the  air  and  exhilarated  tired  na- 
ture. Nature  in  this  case  was  represented,  how- 
ever, by  nothing  more  important  than  the  lime- 
tree,  which  was  hard  and  dry  and  shrivelled. 

On  being  admitted  by  a  dusty  servant  with  a 
forlorn  cap,  he  ran  lightly  upstairs.  The  fire  was 
burning  in  Crozier's  sitting-room,  but  there  were 
no  signs  of  breakfast  yet.  Valliant  passed  un- 
hesitatingly through  into  the  bedroom  which 
communicated  by  a  curtained  door.  Here  he 
found  Crozier  on  his  knees  before  an  open  Glad- 
stone bag,  humming  an  operatic  air  to  himself. 

"  Packing!  "  he  exclaimed,  cheerfully.  "  Allow 
me  to  assist  you." 


OLD  SHIPMATES  49 

With  this  purpose  in  view  he  took  a  seat 
upon  the  bed,  and  with  a  quick  swing  of  his 
right  arm  sent  a  pillow  flying  into  the  open 
bag,  scattering  what  was  already  there.  Crozier 
returned  the  missile  gravely,  and  Valliant,  ward- 
ing it  off  with  his  foot,  sent  it  through  the 
open  door  into  the  sitting-room,  where  it  lay 
upon  the  carpet  unheeded. 

Then  the  medical  student  lighted  a  cigarette 
and  watched  his  companion  in  silence.  The 
singer  continued  his  occupation  with  indolent 
gravity. 

"Our  new  tweed  suit  is  very  effective,"  said 
Valliant,  presently,  poising  his  head  sideways, 
and  gazing  critically  toward  his  companion. 

Crozier  ceased  humming  for  a  moment,  and 
pulled  down  his  waistcoat  with  a  smile  of  satis- 
faction. 

"I  was  told  that  it  is  a  most  successful  turn- 
out—by the  man  who  made  it,"  he  said,  with 
gentle  irony.  Then  he  opened  a  drawer  and 
took  therefrom  a  dress-suit  carefully  folded. 

"We  have,  in  addition,  a  new  dress-suit," 
said  Valliant,  with  an  amused  smile. 

"It  is  not  new,"  said  Crozier,  quite  gravely. 
''I  always  keep  two  going." 

"Why?" 

The  singer  did  not  answer  at  once.  He  closed 
the  bag  and  strapped  it  up  vigourously. 

"One  for  the  shady  side,  the  other  for  the 
sunny." 


50  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

Valliant  rose  and  walked  slowly  to  the  window. 
There  he  stood  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets 
contemplating  the  lime-tree,  while  a  thin  spiral 
column  of  smoke  rose  from  the  end  of  his  cigar- 
ette. 

"Which  allegory  meaneth  what?"  he  said> 
indifferently  and  lightly. 

"One  for  Myras  and  another  for  Goldheath — 
one  for  Syra  and  another  for  .  .  .  your 
cousin,"  explained  the  singer,  "just  ring  that 
bell,"  he  continued,  "and  I  will  order  breakfast." 

Valliant  moved  slightly,  but  not  toward  the 
bell,  which  was  almost  within  reach,  and  then 
he  stood  swaying  from  side  to  side,  lifting  first 
one  foot  and  then  the  other. 

"Let  us  go  across  to  Myra's  for  breakfast," 
he  said,  almost  sharply,  as  he  glanced  backward 
over  his  shoulder. 

Crozier  passed  behind  him  and  rang  the  bell 
himself,  before  he  answered  with  a-  persistence 
which  would  have  surprised  a  close  observer  had 
such  been  there  to  see.  It  was  so  unlike  him, 
so  directly  contrary  to  his  indolent  ways  -of 
speech  and  action. 

"1  have  not  the  least  intention  of  going  over 
to  Myra's.  It  is  much  more  comfortable  here. 
I  asked  you  to  breakfast;  you  accepted,  and  you 
must  take  the  consequences.  1  have  better  mar- 
malade than  Myra,  and  the  forks  do  not  come 
'all  hot'  from  a  wooden  tub  behind  the  counter." 

Valliant  laughed   in   his   silent  way  and  said 


OLD  SHIPMATES  51 

nothing.     At  this  moment  a  voice  in  the  sitting- 
room  called  out, 

"Yess'r!" 

"Breakfast,  please,  Mrs.  Sanders." 

"Yess'r!  " 

Crozier  was  still  occupied  in  a  methodical, 
slow  way  with  his  toilet.  When  the  door  of 
the  sitting-room  had  been  closed  somewhat 
hastily  behind  the  housekeeper,  he  said,  without 
looking  toward  his  companion, 

"The  talented  Mrs.  Sanders  is  a  wonderful 
woman.  You  observe  that  there  is  now  no  sign 
of  breakfast.  In  four  minutes  it  will  be  ready 
upon  the  table.  She  has  her  faults,  however. 
Even  that  wonderful  woman  has  her  faults." 

He  drew  on  his  coat  and  looked  critically 
round  the  room  before  continuing  pensively, 

' '  Creaky  boots, "  he  murmured ;  ' '  creaky  boots. 
It  is  not  a  venial  sin,  but  it  serves  to  show  that 
she  is  only  human  after  all.  .  ,  .  And — and 
1  have  reason  to  believe  that  she  brings  most  of 
the  breakfast-things  upstairs  in  her  pockets. 
"Now  I'm  ready.  Come  along  and  witness  Mrs. 
Sanders'  miracle." 

Valliant  followed  his  companion  into  the  other 
room  and  threw  the  end  of  his  cigarette  into  the 
fire.  Then  he  turned,  and  in  his  usual  bantering 
way  said, 

"Were  your  dulcet  tones  delighting  the  heart 
of  the  British  public  last  night  ?  " 

"■  Yes,  I  was  singing  at  a  smoking  concert." 


52  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

"You  are  a  fool,  Samuel,  to  do  that  sort  of 
thing." 

"Why?" 

"Well,  I  suppose  you  gave  your  services  for 
nothing.     Of  course  it  was  a  benefit." 

"Yes." 

"You  shouldn't  do  it,  mon  vieux.  Keep  your 
market  price  up.  People  do  not  set  a  high 
value  on  what  cost  them  nothing.  You  ought  to 
be  making  more  money  than  you  are  making 
now  with  a  voice  like  yours." 

"The  pot  is  casting  aspersions  upon  the  com- 
plexion of  the  kettle,"  said  Crozier,  as  he  took  up 
the  morning  paper  from  the  breakfast-table.  "  \ 
am  very  happy  as  1  am,  my  friend,"  he  continued, 
with  lazy  good  nature.  "Mrs.  Sanders  cooks 
kidneys  perfectly.  Lime  Court,  if  not  rural,  is  at 
least  quiet  and  peaceful.  My  soul  hankers  not 
after  wealth." 

"Did  you  sing  the  song  about  the  old  sports- 
man?" 

"The  old  sportsman  .  .  .?"  echoed  Crozier, 
in  surprise,  as  he  looked  over  the  paper  toward 
his  companion.     "Which  old  sportsman?" 

"The  venerable  wild-goose  chaser,"  explained 
Valliant.  "The  new  song  you  sang  the  other 
night  at  Myra's." 

"Oh  yes.  1  sang  it  by  way  of  an  encore."" 
Then  he  continued  reading  the  morning  news^ 
and  did  not  seem  to  hear  his  companion's  mut- 
tered remark  made  a  few  minutes  later. 


OLD  SHIPMATES  53 

**I  like  that  song,"  Valliant  said  vaguely  and 
even  seriously.  "  Have  you  put  it  in  your  Glad- 
stone?" he  added  later  in  a  louder  voice. 

"1  think  so,  but  at  all  events  I  know^  it,"  was 
the  careless  reply. 

"  You  had  much  better  take  it  and — and  then 
Elma  can  play  the  accompaniment.  She  likes 
doing  so,  1  believe." 

Over  the  newspaper  a  pair  of  deep-set  earnest 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  Valliant's  face.  The  pos- 
sessor of  the  eyes  slowly  moistened  his  lips. 
The  paper  was  quite  motionless,  the  strong, 
heavy-featured  man  then  turned  away  and  laid 
it  aside. 

"Accompanying  is  never  a  pleasure,"  he  said 
indifferently. 

There  was  a  short  silence,  during  which  the 
singer  brought  two  chairs  forward  to  the  table. 
Then  Valliant  spoke  again. 

"She  once  told  me  that  she  liked  accompany- 
ing you,"  he  said  placidly. 

"  I  think  it  is  in  my  bag,"  muttered  the  singer 
in  a  tone  which  implied  that  he  had  no  intention 
of  verifying  his  supposition. 

At  that  moment  Mrs.  Sanders  bustled  into  the 
room,  bearing  an  enormous  tray.  As  predicted 
by  Crozier,  breakfast  was  served  in  a  few  min- 
utes, and  the  two  men  sat  down.  Crozier  did 
the  honours  in  a  quick  deft  way,  pouring  out  the 
coffee  and  moving  the  cups  and  plates  with  a 
certain  noiseless  ease.     Had  Elma  Valliant  been 


54  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

there  she  would  perhaps  have  detected  a  subtle 
resemblance  between  his  way  of  moving  and 
that  of  William  Holdsworth,  who,  she  thought, 
did  things  like  a  sailor.  It  almost  seemed  as  if 
these  two  men  had  passed  through  the  same 
school. 

"By  the  way,"  said  the  singer,  when  Mrs. 
Sanders  had  left  the  room,  "you  never  told  me 
what  Mrs.  Valliant  said  in  reply  to  your  note.  \ 
don't  know  whether  I  am  invited  or  not." 

Valliant  fumbled  in  his  pockets. 

"I  have  a  letter  for  you  somewhere,"  he  re- 
plied.    "  1  wonder  where  it  is." 

"From  Mrs.  Valliant,"  inquired  the  singer, 
quietly. 

His  companion  looked  across  the  table  sharply, 
without  however  abandoning  his  search. 

"  Yes,  from  the  old  lady  herself." 

"Then  I  suppose  it  is  all  right  ?" 

"Oh,  yes.  It  is  all  right  and  .  .  .  yes 
.     .     .     here  is  the  letter." 

The  note  was  short,  but  kindly  enough  in  its 
stiff  wording.  Merely  an  invitation  to  go  down 
to  Goldheath  with  Tom  at  the  end  of  the  week 
and  stay  as  long  as  was  convenient,  hospitably 
expressed,  but  with  no  heartiness.  People  with 
greenish  gray  eyes,  around  the  iris  of  which 
there  is  a  distinct  light-coloured  rim,  are  never 
hearty.  There  is  no  impulsiveness,  no  warmth 
of  self-sacrificing  love  in  the  soul  that  is  hidden 
behind  such  eyes  as  these- 


OLD  SHIPMATES  5^ 

Tom  Valliant  took  up  the  letter  which  his  com- 
panion had  thrown  across  to  him,  and  read  it 
with  a  smile  in  his  quick,  restless  eyes. 

"1  have  seen  my  respected  aunt,"  he  said 
cheerily,  "under  many  different  circumstances, 
but  1  have  never  yet  seen  her  sans  starch." 

Crozier  made  no  reply  to  this  remark,  and 
presently  rose  from  the  table  to  ring  the  bell  and 
request  that  a  hansom  cab  should  be  called. 

They  drove  to  Waterloo  Station  through  the 
keen  frosty  air — a  pair  of  cheery,  heartwhole 
men. 

The  journey  was  slow  and  somewhat  unevent- 
ful. At  the  station  they  found  the  Goldheath 
dog-cart  under  the  care  of  a  smart  young  groom, 
who  relinquished  the  reins  to  Tom  with  alacrity. 

"They're  skating  this  morning,  Mr.  Tom," 
said  the  young  fellow,  as  he  jumped  up  behind, 

"On  the  Canal.?" 

"Yes,  sir.  On  the  Old  Canal,  and  beautiful 
ice  it  is.  Miss  Elmy  sent  me  round  by  the  par- 
sonage to  ask  Miss  Gibb  to  go  to  the  Court  and 
take  her  skates.  And  I  believe  there's  some  gen- 
tlemen comin'  over  as  well." 

"What  gentlemen.?"  inquired  Tom  rather 
sharply,  as  he  cleverly  guided  the  horse  round  a 
nasty  corner. 

"There's  young  Mr.  Holdsworth,  sir — him  as 
has  been  away  so  long;  an'  he's  going  to  bring  a 
friend,  I  believe." 

Tom  made  some  remark  to  his  companion  on 


56  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

the  front  seat,  and  the  groom  settled  himself 
squarely,  with  folded  arms  and  a  stony  counte- 
nance. 

When  they  drove  up  to  the  door  of  Goldheath 
Court  the  squire  was  upon  the  step  awaiting 
their  arrival. 

"How  do,  my  dear  boys,  how  der  do?"  he 
exclaimed  heartily.  "They  have  all  just  gone 
down  to  the  pond — Elma,  that  is,  and  Lily  Gibb, 
and  those  two  men.  My  wife  .  .  .  well 
.  .  .  let  me  see,  she's  about  somewhere — 
speaking  to  the  servants,  no  doubt." 

The  two  men  returned  the  old  fellow's  hearty 
grip,  and  then  proceeded  to  unpack  their  skates 
before  the  fire  in  the  carpeted  hall.  In  a  few 
minutes  they  all  passed  out  of  a  glass  door  at 
the  opposite  side  of  the  house,  not  into  the 
walled  garden,  but  on  to  a  large  lawn  where  the 
thin  snow  lay  untouched  by  footsteps.  There 
were  more  cedars  here,  large  solemn  trees  with 
mournful  slice-like  branches  touched  with  white. 
They  skirted  the  lawn  and  came  presently  to  a 
railing.  This  they  climbed,  and  in  a  few  min- 
utes stood  at  the  edge  of  a  long  narrow  strip  of 
water.  This  had  once  been  part  of  a  canal  run- 
ning right  through  Surrey  and  Sussex,  but  the 
Railway  Company,  fearing  opposition,  had 
bought  up  the  water-way,  with  the  view  of 
allowing  it  to  fall  into  disrepair.  Here  and  there 
short  stretches  had  been  preserved  for  irrigation 
or  ornament. 


OLD  SHIPMATES  .   57 

Elma  Valliant,  who  was  standing  on  the  ice 
with  her  skates  already  strapped  on,  came  to  meet 
them  at  once,  followed  more  leisurely  by  a  young 
lady  on  skates  and  two  men  on  foot.  After  the 
greetings  were  over  a  general  introduction  fol- 
lowed, and  the  men  raised  their  hats  vaguely. 

Tom  and  Crozier  immediately  shook  hands 
with  Varden,  expressing  some  surprise  at  seeing 
him  there.  Then  Crozier  looked  quietly  at 
Holdsworth,  to  whom  he  had  been  introduced, 
generally,  a  moment  before.  Holdsworth  did 
not,  however,  appear  to  notice  this  glance. 

The  two  girls  then  glided  away,  leaving  the 
four  men  to  put  on  their  skates. 

It  happened  that  Holdsworth  and  Crozier  were 
next  to  each  other,  and  they  both  saw  that  their 
skates  were  identical,  of  a  peculiar  Canadian 
pattern  rarely  seen  in  England.  The  former 
remarked  upon  this  at  once,  and  Crozier  with 
a  low  laugh  replied  that  he  had  noticed  the  fact. 
The  girls  came  back  in  a  few  minutes  and  found 
that  Tom  and  Varden  had  fixed  their  Acmes  and 
were  ready.  All  four  then  shot  away  hand  in 
hand  in  long  sweeps  on  the  outside  edge. 

The  two  men  seated  on  the  bank  v/ere  still 
talking  about  their  skates. 

"They  take  longer  to  put  on,  but  they  never 
slip  when  once  screv/ed  up  as  Acmes  do,"  Elma 
heard  Crozier  say  as  she  took  Tom's  hand. 

"There  are  none  like  them,"  replied  Holds- 
worth. 


58  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

"I  have  not  skated  this  year,"  said  Crozier, 
bending  over  his  foot. 

"Nor  1,"  was  the  reply. 

Then  the  skaters  moved  away  and  Elma  heard 
no  more.  Something  in  the  manner  of  these  two 
men  interested  her.  There  was  in  both  faces  the 
same  slow  observant  look,  and  in  their  strong 
persons  there  was  a  distinct  resemblance  of  car- 
riage, notably  of  the  shoulders  and  head.  Beside 
them  Walter  Varden  looked  lamentably  boneless 
and  weak,  although  he  was  taller  and  more  care- 
fully dressed. 

When  they  were  left  alone  Crozier  raised  his 
head  slightly  as  if  to  make  sure  that  they  were 
out  of  earshot.  Then  he  ceased  screwing  the 
nut  at  his  heel,  and  stamped  his  foot  tentatively 
on  the  ice. 

He  turned  suddenly  toward  his  companion  and 
his  blue  eyes  seemed  to  contract. 

"What  the  devil  are  you  doing  here.?"  he 
asked  in  a  softly  deliberate  way. 

Holdsworth  seemed  in  no  manner  surprised. 
He  continued  fixing  his  skate,  but  glanced  fur- 
tively toward  his  companion's  hands,  which  were 
lying  strong  and  quiescent  upon  either  knee. 
Then  he  answered  in  a  low  voice  — 

"That  is  my  business." 

Crozier  did  not  change  countenance.  He  rose 
to  his  feet  and  stood  upon  the  ice  in  front  of  his 
companion,  looking  down  at  him  with  no  hard- 
ness in  his  earnest  eyes. 


OLD  SHIPMATES  ■;9 

"That  style  will  not  do  with  me,"  he  said, 
"  you  know  me  better  than  that." 

"Hang  it,  sir,  .  .  ."began  Holdsworth^ 
then  he  stopped  suddenly.  The  last  word  had 
slipped  from  his  tongue  inadvertently,  and  he 
looked  up  with  an  awkward  embarrassed  laugh. 

"The  old  habit  sticks  closely,"  he  murmured, 
deprecatingly. 

Crozier's  smile  was  also  tinged  with  embar- 
rassment, but  it  was  perhaps  characteristic  of  the 
man  that  he  was  in  no  way  softened. 

"Did  you  know  I  was  coming  to-day.?"  he 
asked  gravely. 

"Yes!" 

"  And  you  had  the  cheek  to  come  too  ?  " 

"Call  it  pluck,"  suggested  Holdsworth,  auda- 
ciously. He  dragged  at  his  fluffy  fair  mustache 
and  glanced  at  Crozier  with  daring  blue  eyes  as 
he  spoke. 

"  Suppose,"  began  Crozier,  meditatively,  "sup- 
pose I  had  recognized  you  publicly  and  called  you 
by     .     .     .     by  the  name  you  sailed  under." 

'You  are  not  the  sort  of  man  to  make  a  mis- 
take of  that  description,"  said  the  other  coolly, 
and  with  no  intention  of  flattery. 

"It  never  does  to  trust  too  much  to  luck. 
It  might  have  been  very  av/kward,"  insisted 
Crozier. 

"  I  didn't  trust  to  luck,  I  trusted  to  you." 

"Then  don't  do  it  again."  This  was  uttered 
shortly  and  with  a  steady  tone  of  determinatioi> 


6o  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

which  Crozier  assumed  at  times,  and  which 
clashed  with  his  indolent  way  of  taking  the 
world.  He  glided  away  backward,  but  HoIds~ 
worth  was  now  on  his  feet  and  skated  after  him. 

"Oh,"  he  said  in  a  voice  half-sneering  and 
half-pleading,  "  it  is  so  easy  to  hit  a  fellow  when 
he  is  down,  so  confoundedly  easy  to  prevent  him 
getting  up  again." 

"  Are  you  trying  to  get  up  again  ?"  asked  the 
singer. 

"1  cannot  expect  the  attempt  to  be  well  re- 
ceived at  your  hands,"  was  the  sullen  reply. 

They  were  now  skating  down  the  length  of 
the  pond  toward  the  rest  of  the  party,  each  in 
his  individual  and  characteristic  way — Crozier 
backward  with  a  marked  ease  and  assurance  of 
movement.  Holdsworth  keeping  close  to  him, 
advancing  upon  the  outside  edge  with  a  greater 
display  of  action  and  even  some  flourish,  but  not 
so  firmly  set  upon  the  ice. 

Crozier  glanced  over  his  shoulder  before  reply- 
ing. They  were  still  some  way  from  the  rest  of 
the  party. 

"That  is  bosh,"  he  said  quietly,  "and  you 
know  it.' 

Perhaps  there  was  a  slight  softening  of  tone, 
or  it  may  have  been  that  a  sudden  recollection 
arose  before  Holdsworth's  mind.  At  all  events 
his  manner  suddenly  changed. 

"Ah,  Crozier,"  he  exclaimed  eagerly,  "you 
are  the  only  man  who  has  gone  out  of  his  way 


OLD  SHIPMATES  6i 

to  help  me.  Don't  turn  against  me  now.  I 
have  tried,  man;  I've  tried  hard.  Don't  push 
me  down-hill  now.  Give  me  another  chance.  I 
cannot  be  wholly  bad.  I  was  a  good  sailor — 
remember  that.  Whatever  1  was,  I  made  a  good 
sailor." 

"Yes,"  replied  the  singer  absently,  "you  were 
a  good  sailor,  a  better  one  than  1  was  myself, 
most  likely    .     .     ." 

Suddenly  he  stopped,  his  eyes  acquired  at  that 
instant  a  hard,  almost  metallic  look.  His  strong 
face  was  fixed  and  rigid.  The  other  saw  it  and 
grew  ashy  pale. 

"  By  God,"  he  whispered,  "your  time  is  not 
up.     1  have  a  good  memory  for  dates!  " 

"Look  out,"  gasped  Holdsworth.  "Here  is 
Valliant!" 


^     CHAPTER  VI 

PLAYMATES 

At  this  moment  Tom  Valliant  skated  up  to 
them. 

"Do  come,"  he  cried  out,  "and  see  Varden  s 
figure  eight.  It  is  certainly  the  very  finest  thing 
of  the  kind  that  I  have  ever  seen.  He  does  the 
first  loop  splendidly,  and  then  sits  down." 

The  tu'o  men  laughed,  and  followed  him  at 
once.  Walter  Varden,  who  was  the  worst  skater 
present,  was  attempting  to  conceal  the  fact  under 
a  flow  of  technical  terms  and  phrases,  A  sort  of 
competition  was  presently  set  on  foot  and  all  the 
party  stood  in  a  group.  In  this,  Holdsworth  un- 
doubtedly came  out  the  best  man.  There  was  a 
certain  dash  and  recklessness  in  his  performance, 
Avhich,  if  of  doubtful  value  in  life,  is  useful  upon 
skates.  While  this  was  still  going  on  Tom  Val- 
liant moved  to  his  cousin's  side,  and  under  cover 
of  a  loud  laugh,  in  which  every  one  joined  except 
Varden,  he  took  her  hand  and  drew  her  away. 

"Come  round  the  pond  with  me,"  he  said,  "I 
have  something  to  tell  you." 

There  may  perhaps  have  been  a  shadow  of 
hesitation  in  her  smile,  but  she  obeyed  him  in- 
stantly, and  with  crossed  hands  they  shot  away. 

"I  suppose,  Elma,"  he  said  carelessly,  "that 
62 


PLAYMATES  6^ 

Crozier  has  not  spoken  to  you  about  me,  or  my 
affairs." 

"No,"  she  repHed  shortly. 

"I  did  not  expect  that  he  had."  continued  her 
cousin.  "The  praiseworthy  manner  in  which  the 
grave  Samuel  minds  his  own  affairs  is  almost 
worthy  of  a  better  cause." 

"  He  has  not  spoken  at  all  except  to  say  '  how 
do  you  do! '  "  murmured  she,  indifferently. 

Elma  and  Tom  were  almost  of  the  same  height,, 
for  he  was  not  a  tall  man.  He  glanced  sideways 
at  her  with  those  quick  merry  eyes  of  his,  and 
drew  her  toward  him  a  little,  so  that  his  grip 
was  firmer  round  her  fingers,  for  the  ice  was 
hard  and  difficult. 

"And  yet  with  all  his  aversion  to  meddling 
with  other  people's  affairs  he  is  the  cause  of  our 
being  here  now." 

"  Indeed,"  she  said,  laughingly.  "  Did  he  think 
you  required  a  change  of  air,  or  did  you,  as  his 
medical  adviser,  prescribe  the  same  for  him." 

"Neither,  ma  coiisiiie.  He  was  pleased  to  pro- 
claim it  necessary  under  circumstances  which 
have  arisen  that  I  should  come  down  to  Gold- 
heath,  confess  the  circumstances,  and  seek  the 
advice  of  my  honoured  relatives." 

She  looked  at  him  suddenly  with  a  wondering 
smile. 

"What  are  the  circumstances.^"  she  asked. 
"Though  my  advice  can  hardly  be  of  much 
value." 


64  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

He  turned  quickly,  as  if  about  to  contradict 
the  last  statement,  but  appeared  to  change  his 
mind. 

"The  circumstances,"  he  began,  with  mock 
pomposity,  "are  briefly  these.  Nearly  a  year 
ago  Sam  gave  a  bachelor's  party;  perhaps  you 
remember  it.  There  were  a  lot  of  clever  fellows 
there,  and  not  least  among  these  was  your  de- 
voted admirer — the  deponent.  One  fellow  played 
the  mandolin,  another  played  something  else,  and 
I,  as  usual,  played  the  fool.  During  the  evening 
Sam  sang  several  songs,  and  among  them  he  sang 
the  '  Bridge.'  I  don't  know  which  bridge  or 
what  bridge,  but  he  declared  that  he  was  there 
at  midnight  as  the  clock  was  striking  the  hour. 
When  he  had  finished  singing,  one  of  the  men 
there,  a  well-known  publisher,  said  that  he  be- 
lieved that  there  was  a  fortune  to  be  made  by 
illustrating  Longfellow's  Poems,  and  that  it  ought 
to  be  a  comparatively  easy  task.  Presently  the 
subject  was  changed,  and  was  not  again  referred 
to  before  the  men  left.  When  they  had  all  gone, 
somewhere  about  three  in  the  morning,  Sam  and 
I  sat  down  to  have  a  last  solemn  pipe.  After  we 
had  been  meditating  upon  the  political  condition 
of  our  fatherland  for  some  time,  he  took  his  pipe 
from  his  mouth,  and  looked  at  me  in  his  most 
gravely  melancholy  manner.  You  know  the  way 
he  looks  at  one  when  he  is  going  to  be  rather 
funny." 

"Yes,"  said  Elma  softly,  "I  know." 


PLAYMATES  65 

"I  suppose  you  will  start  to-morrow  morning," 
he  said  quietly.  "  1  asked  him  what  he  was  driv- 
ing at,  and  he  explained  that  1  would  be  a  fool 
not  to  have  a  shot  at  illustrating  Longfellow.  I 
had  a  shot,  Lima.  I  tried  for  it  .  .  .  and 
.     .     .     and  I've  won." 

He  broke  off  into  a  short  laugh,  and  looked 
away  past  her,  across  the  low  meadow  toward 
the  dark  belt  of  pine  trees. 

"1  am  very  glad,"  she  said  softly,  and  in  her 
voice  there  was  a  thrill  of  heartfelt  sincerity.  She 
was  quite  grave,  and  his  jesting  reply  must  have 
struck  harshly  upon  her  ears. 

"Sam  says  it  is  luck,"  he  laughed,  "whereas  I 
am  of  the  opinion  that  it  is  genius." 

"  And  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?"  she  asked. 
"I  suppose  you  will  give  up  St.  Antony's!" 

If  she  failed  to  appear  excited  over  Tom's  good 
fortune  it  was  because  she  had  not  seen  the  book, 
because  she  did  not  know  how  great  and  assured 
its  success  was  considered  by  experts;  and  if  he 
was  disappointed  in  the  manner  in  which  she  re- 
ceived the  news  he  had  only  to  blame  his  own 
off-hand  way  of  imparting  it.  It  was  often  a 
difficult  matter  to  define  exactly  where  gravity 
merged  into  jest  with  Tom  Valliant,  and  being  a 
sensitive  man  he  had  received  many  a  little  rank- 
ling stab  from  no  other  reason  than  that  he  had 
been  misunderstood. 

"My  dear  Elma,"  he  now  said,  with  a  smile, 
"that  is  precisely  why  I  am  here.     It  is  because 


66  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

I  do  not  know  myself,  or  do  not  care,  that  I  seek 
your  advice  and  that  of  your  stern  parents." 

"  Have  you  told  them  ?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  he  answered,  with  a  sudden  access  of 
gravity.  "No;  I  wanted  to  tell  you  .  .  . 
first  of  all." 

She  was  pleased  to  ignore  his  gravity. 

"Because  of  the  superior  value  of  my  advice.?" 
she  asked. 

"Of  course,"  he  answered  laughingly.  The 
group  at  the  end  of  the  pond  had  broken  up, 
and  at  this  moment  Crozier  passed  near  to  them. 
Tom  stopped  him. 

"  Sam!  "  he  cried.     "Samuel!  " 

The  singer  swung  round  and  faced  them.  Val- 
liant  half  extended  his  hand  as  if  to  invite  him  to 
join  them,  but  Crozier  did  not  appear  to  notice  it, 
although  Elma's  quick  eyes  detected  the  move- 
ment at  once. 

"I  have  been  telling  Elma  about  that  book," 
said  Valliant. 

"Ah!"  He  turned  toward  the  girl  at  once 
with  his  slow  smile. 

"  You  must  congratulate  him,"  he  added;  "he 
has  made  a  great  hit! " 

Then  he  skated  away.  The  manoeuvre  was 
not  well  executed.  His  intention  of  leaving  them 
alone  was  too  obvious,  and  they  both  experienced 
a  little  momentary  shock  of  antagonism  toward 
him.  Considering  that  he  had  been  distinctly  in- 
vited to  join  them,  the  movement  was  a  mistake. 


PLAYMATES  67 

Tom  was  annoyed,  and  changed  the  subject 
ahnost  immediately,  with  a  murmur  to  the  effect 
that  Elma  would  see  the  book  later.  Presently 
he  left  her,  and  his  place  was  taken  without  de- 
lay by  Holdsworth,  whose  style  of  skating  suited 
Elma's  admirably. 

Her  new  companion  made  himself  very  agree- 
able, exercising  freely  a  pleasant  gift  of  talking 
happily  upon  tritling  subjects.  But  Elma  was 
absent-minded.  She  answered  briefly  though 
kindly  enough,  and  her  laugh  had  that  peculiar 
ring  in  it  which  betrays  a  lack  of  interest.  Pres- 
ently, however,  she  accorded  a  greater  attention 
to  him,  and  even  encouraged  his  sallies  by  bright 
responses  of  her  own.  She  had  seen  that  Val- 
liant  and  Crozier  were  now  skating  together  with 
the  usual  kindly  exchange  of  chaff,  which  dis- 
pelled a  half-conceived  fear  that  there  was  some 
cloud  upon  the  horizon  of  their  friendship. 

She  was  very  desirous  of  speaking  with  Crozier 
before  Tom  produced  the  book  which  promised 
so  well,  but  no  opportunity  occurred  before  the 
luncheon-bell  was  heard.  She  even  began  to 
think  that  the  singer  was  purposely  avoiding  her, 
which  is  a  dangerous  thought  to  harbour,  for  it 
gathers  evidence,  like  a  cunning  attorney,  where 
none  exists. 

After  luncheon  they  all  returned  to  the  pond, 
and  it  was  then  that  Crozier  had  a  severe  fall. 
There  had  been  much  tumbling  about,  but  no  one 
had  been   hurt.      Crozier's   fall,    however,    was 


68  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

something  nastier,  as  he  was  going  a  great  pace 
at  the  time,  and  came  down  heavily  upon  his 
shoulder.  Moreover  it  was  not  his  own  fault, 
which  perhaps  made  matters  worse.  Walter 
Varden  was  executing  a  very  elaborate  figure,  and 
fell  just  in  time  to  upset  Crozier  as  he  came  rap- 
idly backward  on  the  outside  edge.  Both  men 
sat  on  the  ice  and  laughingly  apologized.  Pres- 
ently they  rose  and  continued  skating,  but  the 
singer  soon  went  toward  a  small  garden-seat 
which  had  been  brought  to  the  edge  of  the 
water. 

"I  am  going  to  smoke,"  he  said  with  grave 
jocularity  to  Tom,  "and  recover  my  shattered 
senses." 

From  that  little  garden-seat  he  watched  them 
all — watched  Holdsworth  skating  with  Elma,  and 
watched  Tom  Valliant  watching  Holdsworth. 
At  the  same  time  he  smoked  meditatively  with 
many  a  speculative  glance  at  the  burning  end  of 
his  cigar.  Occasionally  his  deep-set  eyes  sol- 
emnly followed  the  movements  of  Waher  Varden 
and  Miss  Gibb,  not  that  these  personages  were 
interesting,  but  because  they  formed  a  necessary 
part  of  the  picture. 

He  was  in  no  manner  surprised  when  Elma  left 
Holdsworth  and  came  toward  him. 

"  I  am  a  little  tired,"  she  explained,  as  she  took 
her  place  at  his  side  upon  the  seat,  and  then  she 
sat  with  rather  heightened  colour,  breathing  rap- 
idly from  her  late  exertions. 


PLAYMATES  69 

"It  is  about  this  time  in  the  afternoon,"  said 
Crozier,  "that  pensiveness  comes  upon  us." 

Then  he  recollected  his  cigar,  and  glanced  over 
his  shoulder  to  see  where  he  could  throw  it. 

"  If  you  throw  it  away  I  shall  go,"  said  Elma. 

He  inclined  his  head  by  way  of  thanking  her, 
and  continued  smoking. 

"Zum  befehl,"  he  murmured,  turning  toward 
her.     ' '  What  riddle  are  you  about  to  propound  ?  " 

"  Firstly,"  she  replied,  with  a  little  smile,  "I 
want  to  know  if  you  hurt  yourself  just  now." 

"Not  at  all,  thank  you;  it  was  only  a  shake. 
I  am  getting  rather  old  to  roll  about,  and  .  .  . 
and  as  I  observed  before,  a  certain  pensiveness 
comes  over  man  and  beast  at  this  time  in  the 
afternoon." 

In  completion  of  his  meaning  he  slightly  raised 
his  cigar  and  glanced  at  it. 

"  Quite  sure  ?  "  she  asked,  with  her  pretty  head 
poised  sideways. 

"  Quite,"  he  answered  carelessly,  almost  rudely, 
in  face  of  her  evident  sympathy.  "  Has  Tom  told 
you  all  about  the  book?"  he  added  at  once,  with 
the  obvious  intention  of  changing  the  subject. 

"I  think  so,"  she  replied,  looking  across  the  ice 
toward  her  cousin;  "but  I  have  no  doubt  that 
you  can  tell  me  more." 

"Yes!" 

"Tom's  account  of  it  was — to  say  the  least — 
sketchy.  Most  of  his  statements  are  sketchy,  [ 
think.     Is   it  really  going  to  be  a  success,  Mr. 


70  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

Crozier  ?  I  mean  enough  of  a  success  to  justify 
his  giving  up  medicine  and  taking  to  art." 

' '  1  think  so, "  he  said  quietly,  with  no  hesitation, 
no  mock  modesty. 

"  And,"  she  added  with  a  business-like  turn  of 
the  head,  "  will  the  sale  be  large  ?" 

He  smiled  involuntarily  at  her  evident  delight 
in  her  own  show  of  commercial  shrewdness. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "1  think  it  will  be  large.  In 
fact  by  the  arrangement  which  has  been  made 
with  the  publisher  it  should  bring  him  in  a  small 
income  for  some  years.  The  publisher  has  been 
very  generous." 

"I  did  not  know  that  Tom  was  such  a  good 
man  of  business." 

She  had  turned  a  little  and  was  looking  directly 
ai  him. 

"No,"  he  answered  rather  consciously.  "He 
is  very  far-sighted,  1  think,  though  he  is  pleased 
to  conceal  the  fact." 

"Who  made  the  arrangement?"  she  asked, 
with  a  momentary  gleam  beneath  her  lashes. 

"The  arrangement  .  .  .  oh  .  .  .  er— 
I  made  the  arrangement." 

He  drew  in  his  feet  and  stooped  to  examine  the 
fastenings  of  his  skates  with  a  critical  eye. 

"You  are  very  good  to  Tom,"  she  said  with 
sudden  gravity;  "  an  invaluable  friend." 

"The  obligation  is  no  more  on  one  side  than  on 
the  other,"  he  replied.  "  'We  halve  our  griefs, 
and  double  our  joys.'  " 


PLAYMATES  71 

She  recognized  the  ring  of  a  quotation  in  the 
low  tones  of  his  voice,  and  asked  — 

"Who  said  that?" 

"Somebody  defined  friendship  in  that  way 
,     .     .     Lord  Bacon,  I  believe." 

For  some  moments  they  sat  in  silence,  listening 
to  the  long  continuous  ring  of  the  ice  beneath  the 
bright  blades.  It  was  a  still  evening  such  as  often 
•comes  in  February.  The  pine-trees  all  round 
them,  like  voiceless  sentinels,  seemed  to  watch 
and  wait.  All  the  western  sky  was  ruddy  with 
a  dismal  cold  glow  not  yet  speaking  of  spring. 
But  the  two  sitting  there  did  not  seem  to  feel 
the  cold,  and  they  watched  the  skaters  with  super- 
ficial interest.     At  last  she  moved  a  little, 

"I  wish  1  could  remember  things  like  that," 
she  said;  "  I  am  afraid  I  forget  everything  tha*  J 
read  or  hear." 

"  Um — "  he  murmured,  and  smoked  harder. 

"You  seem  to  have  read  a  great  deal,"  she 
continued. 

He  had  thrown  away  his  cigar  and  was  leaning 
forward  with  his  elbows  resting  on  his  knees, 
and  his  strong,  brown  hands  clasped  restfully. 
He  turned  toward  her  without  actually  looking 
into  her  face. 

"You  see,"  he  explained  in  a  practical  way, 
"sailors  have  plenty  of  time  on  their  hands  in  fine 
weather,  and — and  I  suppose,  taking  it  all  in  all, 
there  is  more  fine  weather  to  be  met  with  than 
had.     When  1  was  a  sailor  I  read  a  good  deal." 


72  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

She  did  not  answer  at  once.  It  almost  seemed 
as  if  she  had  caught  a  little  of  his  indolent  pen- 
siveness  and  indifference. 

"  I  always  understood,"  she  said  in  a  slow 
way,  which  dispensed  with  the  necessity  of  a 
direct  answer,  "that  sailors  never  quite  settle 
down  on  land." 

"No    .     .     .     no,  perhaps  you  are  right." 

"You   are   still  fond  of  the  sea.?"  she  said. 

"Yes.  Some  day,  when  I  am  a  rich  man 
(through  the  exertions  of  some  one  else  of 
course),  I  shall  keep  a  yacht." 

He  looked  thoughtfully  over  the  still  trees  to- 
ward the  southern  heavens,  where  huge  clouds 
hung  lazily  with  softly-rounded  edges  and  a 
wondrous  look  of  "distance"  about  them.  She 
concluded  that  he  was  thinking  of  his  beloved 
sea,  but  in  that  she  was  wrong.  The  past  oc- 
cupied no  place  in  his  mind. 

"  And  yet,"  she  said  tentatively  with  a  woman's 
quick  sympathy,  "you  left  it  by  your  own  free 
will." 

He  shook  his  head  slowly  and  sat  back  in  the 
seat. 

"Not  quite,"  he  replied  \yith  a  smile.  "It  was  a 
case  of  mistaken  duty — of  giving  way  to  an  over- 
sensitive conscience.  I  do  not  err  in  that  way 
now.  When  my  father  died  my  mother  com- 
pletely broke  down.  I  was  on  the  China  station 
then,  and  I  thought  it  my  duty  to  come  home, 
even  if  I  had  to  give  up  the  sea  in  order  to  do  it» 


PLAYMATES  75 

When  I  reached  England  she  had  been  buried 
three  weeks." 

He  spoke  quite  unemotionally,  and  there  was 
almost  a  speculative  feeling  in  his  voice  as  if  he 
were  relating  an  incident  in  the  life  of  some  one 
else,  wondering  over  the  possible  effect  in  a 
semi-interested  way. 

At  this  moment  William  Holdsworth  passed 
before  them. 

"Tired?"  he  said,  with  respectful  familiarity 
to  Elma,  and  glided  away  with  a  meaning  smile 
before  she  had  time  to  reply. 

"I  sometimes  think,"  she  said  presently,  in  a 
lower  voice,  "that  Willy  Holdsworth  should  have 
been  a  sailor.  There  is  something  about  the  way 
in  which  he  holds  himself,  and  the  movements  of 
his  hands  that  reminds  me  of  ...  of  you, 
and  of  other  naval  men." 

Without  turning  his  head  he  glanced  at  her 
face.  She  was  watching  Holdsworth  with  a  little 
interested  smile. 

"What  is  he?"  he  asked,  indifferently. 

"Nothing,  at  present,"  was  the  reply.  "He 
came  home  from  abroad,  somewhere,  three 
months  ago.  Since  that  he  has  lived  with  his 
parents.  Their  house  is  about  five  miles  away. 
They  are  very  very  old,  and  I  have  been  told  that 
he  is  a  devoted  son,  now." 

Sam  Crozier  made  no  answer  to  this,  and  soon 
he  rose,  holding  out  his  hand. 

"Come,"  he  said,  "let  us  skate.     You   will 


74  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

catch  cold  if  you  sit  here  too  long  in  the  twi- 
light." 

Presently  he  handed  her  over  to  the  care  of  Tom 
Valliant,  and  continued  to  sweep  about  \i\  long 
sure  curves  by  himself.  He  seemed  to  love  soli- 
tude for  its  own  sake.  Certain  it  is  that  he  pre- 
ferred his  own  society  to  that  of  Holdsworth, 
Varden,  or  even  the  lively  Miss  Gibb.  Now  that 
he  had  brought  Tom  and  Elma  together,  he  was 
quite  content  to  spend  the  last  hour  of  their  day's 
■pleasure  alone — whirling,  skimming,  gliding  from 
side  to  side,  from  end  to  end  of  the  long  sheet  of 
ice. 

His  strong,  gentle  face  was  restful  as  it  always 
was,  his  deep-set  eyes  contemplative.  In  short, 
the  man  was  strong,  with  that  great,  deep,  en- 
during strength  which  is  independent  of  human 
sympathies.  Few  men  of  this  stamp  pass 
through  their  allotted  years  without  doing  some 
good,  lightening  some  burdens,  and  holding  up 
some  stumblers.  They  are  seldom  beloved  by 
the  many,  for  the  many  know  them  not;  but  the 
lives  around  them  if  not  brighter,  are  surer  in 
their  brightness  and  braver  in  their  shadows  for 
the  unconscious  influence  wielded  by  strength 
over  great  and  small. 


CHAPTER  VII 

crozier's  lie 

Mrs.  Valliant  had  scruples  about  asking 
Crozier  to  sing  more  than  one  or  two  songs. 
She  felt,  perhaps,  that  it  was  a  species  of  charity 
for  which  she  was  suing;  attempting  to  get  for 
nothing,  as  it  were,  a  commodity  for  which 
money  was  demanded.  But  Elma  was  not  held 
back  by  such  doubts  as  these,  estimable  and  ad- 
mirable as  they  certainly  were.  After  dinner  that 
evening  she  seated  herself  airily  at  the  piano,  and 
swung  round  upon  the  revolving  music-stool  to- 
ward Crozier  with  her  hands  clasped  upon  her 
lap. 

"Now,"  she  said,  imperiously,  "how  many 
songs  have  you  brought  ?  " 

"Two  or  three,"  was  the  reply. 

"My  dear  Elma,"  murmured  Mrs.  Valliant,  re- 
proachfully, "  how  can  you  be  so  high-handed.? 
Just  when  Tomkins  was  bringing  in  the  coffee 
too.     What  will  the  servants  think  of  you  ?  " 

Tom  winked  at  Crozier  over  his  coffee-cup  and 
promptly  went  to  his  cousin's  assistance. 

"Ah,  Aunt  Minnie,  you  see  Elma  knows  how 
to  treat  Sam.  If  she  asked  him  prettily  to  oblige 
us  with  a  song,  he  would  hum  and  ha,  and  wait 
7' 


76  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

to  be  pressed.  I  know  the  man.  That  is  the 
way  to  overcome  him.  Push  him,  don't  try  to 
draw  him  with  silken  cords." 

He  laughed,  his  quick  infectious  laugh,  and 
stepped  forward  to  take  Mrs.  Valliant's  empty 
coffee-cup.  Then  he  crossed  the  room  and  took 
possession  of  a  low  chair  near  the  piano.  There 
he  leant  back  and  gave  himself  over  to  the  en- 
joyment of  the  music.  His  quick  sensitive  na- 
ture was  easily  touched  by  outward  influences, 
and  Crozier's  singing  was  always  an  unalloyed 
pleasure  to  him. 

From  his  position  at  the  side  of  the  piano  he 
was  closer  to  Elma  than  Crozier,  who  stood  be- 
hind her,  and  her  dress  throv/n  carelessly  aside 
fell  over  his  extended  feet.  He  leant  back  and 
unconsciously  watched  his  cousin,  noting  the 
play  of  her  deft  fingers,  and  the  little  frown  that 
came  over  her  face  at  the  difficult  passages. 
Once  or  twice  when  the  song  was  well  known 
to  her,  she  forgot  her  anxiety  about  the  accompan- 
iment, and  followed  dreamily  with  her  lightly 
mobile  head  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  splendid  voice. 

All  this  Tom  Valliant  noticed  as  he  lay  softly 
smiling,  and  there  was  something  else  that  im- 
pressed itself  upon  his  memory.  This  was,  that 
Sam  Crozier  never  looked  down  at  the  girl  who 
was  playing  for  him.  His  eyes  kept  strictly  to 
the  music-book,  although  he  stood  so  far  back 
that  he  could  not  possibly  have  read  the  words. 
When   she  turned    round  to   him   to  ask  some 


CROZIERS  LIE  77 

question  with  reference  to  tiie  accompaniment, 
or  to  demand  his  aid  in  the  selection  of  the  next 
song,  he  looked  past  her  toward  the  book  in  a 
business-like,  almost  professional  way,  which 
was  not  quite  natural. 

After  singing  for  some  time  he  asked  her  to 
play,  and  she  did  so  on  condition,  laughingly 
made,  that  it  was  only  in  order  to  allow  him  a 
rest.  When  she  began  he  had  been  standing  be- 
hind her,  and  at  last  she  finished  with  a  decisive 
little  flourish,  and  swung  round.  But  it  was 
only  to  find  that  he  had  noiselessly  crossed  the 
room,  and  was  sitting  beside  her  father  and 
mother  near  the  fire.  Somehow  she  had  ex- 
pected him  to  remain  standing  near  to  the  piano, 
and  the  incident  struck  her  at  the  moment  and 
remained  in  her  memory. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Crozier,  looking  up  for  a 
moment  from  a  book  which  lay  open  before 
him. 

Then  she  turned  toward  her  cousin  who  was 
sitting  near  her,  leaning  forward  in  order  to 
thank  her. 

"Tom,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  which,  without 
being  purposely  lowered,  must  have  been  inau- 
dible at  the  far  end  of  the  room,  "  can  you  not 
stay  over  Monday  ?" 

He  leant  farther  forward,  and  for  a  moment 
his  eyes  were  quite  grave. 

"I  ?"  he  inquired,  touching  his  breast  with  one 
finger. 


78  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

With  her  lips  she  formed  the  single  word 
"Do!" 

"I?"  he  whispered  again,  "or  both?"  And 
with  his  eyes  he  indicated  Crozier. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  played  a  few 
chords  carelessly. 

"As  you  like,"  she  replied,  "and  as  he  likes." 

Tom  Valliant  leant  back  in  his  low  seat  again 
and  crossed  his  legs.  His  cousin  began  playing 
again,  a  light  German  air,  much  in  vogue  just  at 
that  time,  and  he  rubbed  his  slim  hands  slowly 
one  over  the  other,  as  he  looked  vaguely  across 
the  room  toward  Crozier.  Presently  he  roused 
himself. 

"  Oh,  nightingale,"  he  exclaimed,  dramatically, 
"come  and  warble.  We  have  not  had  the  new 
song  yet." 

The  singer  obeyed,  and  sang  two  songs.  Then 
he  said  that  they  had  had  enough,  and  closed  the 
book  in  his  lazily  decisive  way. 

"I  have  been  trying,"  said  Elma,  in  a  low 
voice,  as  she  turned  half  aside  toward  Crozier, 
"to  persuade  Tom  to  stay  over  Monday.  The 
frost  is  going  to  hold  good  and  the  skating  will 
be  worth  staying  for." 

"  Both  of  us,  of  course  ?"  put  in  Tom,  with  a 
short  laugh. 

Crozier  took  no  notice  of  this.  He  was  ar- 
ranging the  music  on  the  piano,  and  he  looked 
down  at  her  with  his  blue  eyes,  softened  by  a 
smile. 


CROZIER'S  LIE  79 

"Do  not  persuade,"  he  said.  "Make  him  do 
it." 

"Can  I  ?  "  she  inquired. 

"Of  course  you  can,"  replied  he,  looking 
toward  Tom,  who,  however,  did  not  meet  his 
glance.  "  There  is  absolutely  nothing  to  take 
him  to  town,  and  the  matter  of  his  brilliant  fu- 
ture can  be  discussed  in  the  family  circle  till  it 
is  worn  threadbare." 

Valliant  drew  in  his  feet,  and  rose  suddenly 
with  the  evident  intention  of  crossing  the  room 
toward  the  fireplace. 

"Phantom  future,  my  boy,  phantom  future," 
he  exclaimed  in  tragic  tones.  "Not  brilliant 
future.     If  you  stay,  1  will;  not  otherwise." 

"  I  do  not  believe  that  he  wants  to  stay,"  said 
Elma. 

Valliant  moved  away,  but  Crozier  raised  his 
arm  and  detained  him. 

"  My  d^ar  Tom,"  he  said,  "I  cannot  stay.  I 
wish  I  could,  but  I  have  an  engagement  on  Mon- 
day night." 

"Break  it,"  suggested  Elma. 

Crozier  shook  his  head. 

Valliant  looked  down  at  his  cousin  gravely. 
She  was  sitting  before  them  on  the  music-stool 
in  her  favourite  half-girlish  attitude,  with  her 
hands  folded  upon  her  lap.  She  swung  from 
side  to  side  in  a  jerky  way,  making  the  stool  re- 
volve. 

"Sam  never  breaks  an  engagement,"  he  said. 


8o  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

"The  worst  of  it  is,"  put  in  Crozier,  "that 
there  is  no  sentimental  consolation  to  be  got  out 
of  it  on  this  occasion.  It  is  not  a  charity  concert, 
so  I  cannot  claim  sympathy.  As  there  is  money 
to  be  considered  in  the  question,  Miss  Valliant, 
you  will  understand  that  I  must  go." 

"  Well,"  she  replied  gaily,  "  Tom  must  stay  at 
all  events."  She  rose  and  passed  across  the 
room  with  her  cousin. 

Crozier,  who  did  not  follow  them,  at  once  no- 
ticed that  she  expressed  no  regret  that  he  should 
be  obliged  to  go,  and  yet  some  expression  of  this 
sort  was  the  least  that  he  might  have  expected. 
He  closed  the  piano  and  stood  for  some  moments 
contemplating  the  little  group  round  the  fire- 
place. Tom  was  talking  gaily  in  his  usual  chaff- 
ing style,  and  the  singer  saw  that  his  friend's 
dark  eyes  followed  his  cousin's  every  movement 
and  every  glance  with  a  persistence  that  was  al- 
most furtive  at  times. 

"A  week,"  meditated  the  watcher  as  he 
brushed  aside  his  brown  mustache  with  a  quick 
backward  movement  of  the  finger.  "A  week 
together  would  do  it  .  .  .  but  .  .  .  but 
why  does  he  keep  constantly  harping  on  that  old 
joke  about  the  phantom  future  ?  I  wish  I  had 
never  sung  the  song." 

Then  he  crossed  the  room  and  joined  in  the 
discussion  which  was  going  on  relative  to  the 
book  of  "Poetical  Works,"  illustrated  by  Tom 
Valliant. 


CROZIER'S  LIE  81 

Later  in  the  evening,  as  the  young  people 
stood  together  in  the  long  broad  passage  that  ran 
the  whole  length  of  the  house,  lighting  their  bed- 
room candles,  Elma  again  returned  to  the  ques- 
tion. 

"Tom,"  she  said,  with  a  little  nod,  "you  are 
going  to  stay  over  Monday." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  laughed  as  he 
swung  lightly  round  on  his  heel  to  face  her. 

"1  should  like  to,"  he  said,  "and  1  suppose  I 
will  because  Sam  says  I  must.  I  generally  do 
what  he  wants  me  to,  sooner  or  later;  iiest-ce- 
pas,  Samuel." 

Crozier  smiled.  He  was  busy  straightening 
the  wick  of  his  candle  with  a  match,  and  the 
flame  flickered,  casting  its  searching  light  up- 
ward upon  his  powerful  head  and  face,  which 
would  have  been  unpleasantly  resolute  had  it 
not  been  for  the  lazy  pensiveness  of  the  deep-set 
eyes. 

"  Invariably,"  he  answered,  "  when  your  own 
wish  tallies  with  mine." 

"And  you,"  said  Elma,  turning  to  him,  "will 
come  back  on  Tuesday  morning  for  some  more 
skating,  as  mother  suggested." 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  gravely,  "if  I  can 
manage  it." 

She  moved  away  a  little  and  glanced  quickly 
into  his  face.  He  was  still  interested  in  the  wick 
of  the  candle. 

"I  have,"  said  Tom,  lightly  touching  his  shirt- 


82  THE  PHANTOJf  FUTURE 

■{., 

front,  "an  aching  conviction  just  here,  that  he 
will  not  turn  up  on  Tuesday  morning." 

Elma  laughed  and  looked  at  Crozier.  She  had 
moved  away  as  if  to  go  to  her  room,  but  she 
stood  still  again  a  few  yards  from  them. 

"I  have  my  doubts,"  she  said. 

"  Miss  Valliant,"  said  the  singer  with  quizzical 
reproach,  "you  tacitly  admitted  just  now  that  I 
was  not  the  sort  of  man  to  break  his  engage- 
ments. Remember  that  the  man  who  keeps  an 
engagement  for  money  may  be  expected  to  keep 
one  for  pleasure.  If  1  were  you  I  should  not 
count  upon  my  failing  to  turn  up  on  Tuesday." 

"1  shall  take  care  not  to  do  so,"  she  said, 
laughingly,  as  she  went  upstairs. 

Nevertheless,  she  knew  as  well  as  if  he  had 
told  her  that  Samuel  Crozier  had  no  intention 
then  of  coming  back  to  Goldheath,  She  also 
knew  that  with  a  man  of  his  stamp  intentions 
once  conceived  are  usually  carried  out.  Some  of 
us  may  consider  it  a  mistake,  this  unswerving 
adherence  to  a  pre-conceived  plan.  Doubtless  it 
leads  to  sorrow,  but  what  does  not  ultimately 
trend  downward  to  that  same  goal }  If  a  mis- 
take be  made  is  it  not  better  to  stand  by  it — to 
steer  the  straightest  course  possible  under  the 
circumstances,  and  press  bravely  forward  through 
the  broken  water  to  the  smooth  depths  which 
(we  are  asked  to  believe)  exist  beyond  } 

Tom  Valliant  accompanied  his  friend  to  his 
bedroom,    but   he   did   not  stay    long.     Crozier 


CROZIER'S  LIE  83 

was  tired  and  unresponsive,  he  sank  into  a  low 
chair  before  the  fire  and  stretched  out  his  legs 
with  a  groan  of  comfort,  answering  Tom's  re- 
marks by  monosyllables.  At  last  the  younger 
man  left  the  room  with  a  cheery  "good-night." 
Then  the  singer  rose  from  his  seat  and  stood 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  his  feet  slightly 
apart  on  the  hearth-rug.  He  was  not  a  clever 
man,  this  musician,  not  very  brilliant,  not  too  in- 
tellectual; but  he  was  steadfast.  In  the  course 
of  a  wandering  life  he  had  seen  many  things  that 
had  puzzled  him,  strange  unsatisfactory  men  and 
incomprehensible  women.  He  had  moved  in 
many  grades  of  society.  Among  men — from  the 
gun-room  to  Myra's.  Among  musicians — from 
Chatham  Music  Hall  to  St.  James's.  Among 
women — from  Syra,  and  lower  than  Syra,  to  his 
aristocratic  mother.  In  all  circles  and  under  all 
circumstances  he  had  experienced  no  difficulty  in 
steering  his  own  course,  guided  by  that  subtle 
sense  of  refinement  which  is  the  true  instinct  of 
gentlemanliness.  Through  everything  he  liad 
(as  he  jocosely  informed  Syra  one  night)  endeav- 
oured to  remember  that  he  was  a  gentleman, 
and  in  view  of  that  remembrance  he  had  this 
evening  considered  it  expedient  to  act  and  prac- 
tically tell  a  lie  in  a  lady's  drawing-room  to  a 
lady's  face,  looking  into  her  eyes  with  his,  inno- 
cently and  calmly.  He  knew  he  had  done  it 
well.  He  had  even  led  up  to  the  invitation  to 
return  to  Goldheath  before  accepting  it  with  as 


84  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

much  eagerness  as  he  ever  displayed  in  anything. 
Ehna  had  expressed  her  complete  satisfaction 
with  the  arrangement,  her  father  had  added  a 
few  hearty  words  of  welcome,  and  Tom  had 
been  merrily  appeased.  Crozier,  however,  never 
had  the  intention  of  returning,  and  now  he  was 
puzzling  himself  as  to  how  Tom  and  Elma  had 
found  this  out.  Concerning  the  former,  he  did 
not  trouble  himself  much.  Tom  Valliant  had  an 
irresponsible  way  of  saying,  at  haphazard, 
things  he  did  not  mean,  and  his  friends  soon 
learnt  to  set  small  store  by  such  remarks.  His 
statements — as  Elma  observed — were  often 
sketchy.  But  with  Elma  herself  it  was  a  differ- 
ent matter.  There  were  many  reasons  why  the 
singer  did  not  wish  her  to  think  that  he  was  de- 
sirous of  avoiding  a  longer  visit  to  Goldheath,  so 
many  that  he  did  not  attempt  to  define  them. 
And  he  knew — he  had  read  in  her  eyes  as  she 
looked  back  over  her  shoulder  with  one  foot  on 
the  stairs — that  she  was  fully  aware  of  his  inten- 
tion. 

He  stood  for  some  time  before  the  fire,  and  ar- 
rived no  nearer  to  a  solution;  then  he  began  to 
think  of  going  to  bed.  It  was  strange  how 
wakeful  he  now  appeared  to  be.  From  the  but- 
tonhole of  his  dress-coat  he  proceeded  to  unpin 
a  flower  in  the  mechanical  manner  with  which 
some  men  wind  their  watch  at  the  mere  mention 
of  bed.  It  was  a  single  spray  of  lily  of  the  valley 
which  Elma  had  given  him  before  dinner,  pre- 


CROZIER'S  LIE  85 

senting  one  to  her  cousin  at  the  same  time.  He 
raised  it  to  his  face  and  critically  inhaled  the 
odour. 

"Dead!"  he  muttered,  and  deliberately  threw 
it  into  the  fire,  where  it  writhed  and  crackled, 
then  he  turned  away  peaceably,  humming  an 
operatic  air. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

RESURRECTION    PIE 

The  next  afternoon  brought  with  it  Holds- 
worth  and  Varden,  who  arrived  about  three 
o'clock  with  their  skates,  having  walked  the  dis- 
tance. It  happened  that  they  came  rather  mal- 
apropos. Some  snow  had  fallen  in  the  night, 
and  in  view  of  his  wife's  consideration  of  her 
servants'  feelings  the  squire  had  deemed  it  pru- 
dent to  refrain  from  proposing  that  the  pond  be 
swept. 

It  was  settled  that  there  was  to  be  no  skating, 
a  walk  being  substituted,  and  a  few  moments 
later  the  two  men  arrived. 

"Oh  hang!"  said  Tom  aloud,  when  he  saw 
them  pass  the  window. 

"  Confound  that  fellow  Holds  worth!  "  thought 
Crozier. 

The  two  new  arrivals  expressed  themselves 
delighted  at  the  notion  of  a  walk.  They  were 
not  at  all  tired,  and  would  as  soon  walk  as  skate. 

On  leaving  the  house,  Holdsworth  made  a  gal- 
lant attempt  to  get  to  Elma's  side,  but  failed. 
Tom  Valliant  was  before  him,  and  Crozier's 
quiet  eyes  were  fixed  on  his  face  with  a  signifi- 
cant persistence,  which  said  only  too  plainly  that 
86 


RESURRECTION  PIE  87 

if  he  succeeded  he  would  not  be  left  in  undis- 
puted possession.  The  quiet  gaze  of  those  eyes 
haunted  Holdsworth  as  he  walked  on  by  the  side 
of  Squire  Valliant.  He  knew  that  the  singer  had 
something  to  say  to  him,  something  unpleasant 
and  probably  true;  he  felt  that  sooner  or  later 
ill  the  afternoon  he  would  get  him  alone,  and 
say  it  in  that  gentle  undeniable  way  which  was 
so  hard  to  meet,  and  he  recognized  when  too 
late  that  he  had  made  a  mistake  in  coming  to 
Goldheath  again. 

Nevertheless,  William  Holdsworth  laughed  and 
chatted  gaily  with  the  genial  old  squire.  He  was 
a  courageous  fellow  in  his  reckless,  jaunty  way, 
and  he  knew  it,  which  made  him  over-confident. 

Crozier  had  something  to  say  to  the  returned 
ne'er-do-weel,  and  he  succeeded,  in  his  deliberate 
way,  in  walking  with  him  alone  at  last,  although 
it  was  not  until  they  had  turned  homeward  again. 
He  came  to  the  point  at  once. 

"Holdsworth,"  he  said,  "this  sort  of  thing 
won't  do!  " 

"What  sort  of  thing  ? " 

"I  should  recommend  you  not  to  come  to 
Goldheath  quite  so  often." 

Holdsworth's  quick  eyes  flashed  round  toward 
his  companion.  He  touched  the  turf  lightly  with 
his  stick  several  times. 

"This  is  not  the  quarter-deck,"  he  remarked 
insolently. 

"  No,'"  murmured  the  singer  gently.    He  threw 


88  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

a  significance  into  the  monosyllable,  which  made 
his  companion  bite  his  lip  in  vexation, 

"  Why  should  I  not  come  to  Goldheath  ?"  was 
the  sullen  rejoinder, 

"Because,"  said  Crozier,  "you  are  doing  no 
good  here," 

"What  business  is  it  of  yours  ?  " 

"None." 

Holdsworth  felt  that  he  was  getting  no  further 
on.  It  would  be  worse  than  folly  to  lose  his 
temper  with  Crozier,  who  was  never  ruffled, 
and  he  felt  that  he  was  verging  on  a  display  of 
heat. 

"The  men  used  to  say,"  he  muttered,  "that 
you  were  a  gentleman.  Is  it  a  gentlemanly  thing 
to  bully  a  man  when  he  is  down  ?  " 

"Look  here,"  said  Crozier,  with  an  uncomfort- 
able ring  of  anger  in  his  voice.  "  Look  here, 
Holdsworth,  if  you  think  that  I  am  going  to 
stand  by  with  my  hands  in  my  pockets,  and 
watch  you  make  love  to  Miss  Valliant,  you  are 
greatly  mistaken." 

They  walked  on  in  silence  for  some  distance. 
Holdsworth  edged  away  from  his  companion  a 
yard  or  so  as  if  to  think  in  solitude.  Then  he 
went  closer  to  him  so  that  their  arms  touched, 

"  I  have  never  quite  understood,"  he  said  softly, 
"  why  you  should  have  troubled  with  me  at  all. 
You  were  the  only  man  on  board  who  had  a 
good  word  for  me,  the  only  fellow  I  have  met  in  the 
whole  of  my  useless  career  who  held  out  a  hand 


RESURRECTION  PIE  89 

to  help  me,  I  suppose  it's  no  good  telling  you  that 
1  did  try.  1  tried,  sir,  to  keep  straight,  not  for 
my  own  sake,  but  for  yours,  to  show  you  that  I 
was  not  quite  a  blackguard.  But  it  was  useless; 
1  went  wrong  again.  Either  I'm  the  unluckiest 
chap  that  has  ever  lived,  or  I'm  a  blackguard,  I 
used  to  think,  Crozier,  that  I  icas  one,  with  no 
hope  of  ever  being  anything  else.  Then  one  day 
1  came  home.  I  found  it  was  not  so  hard  to 
keep  straight  after  all.  The  old  folks  were  very 
good  to  me — very  glad  to  see  me.  That  was  the 
beginning.  Then  I  went  to  Goldheath  one  day 
and  saw  Elma    .     .     .     that  was  the  end." 

They  had  come  to- a  stile,  over  which  Crozier 
vaulted,  but  his  companion  made  no  attempt  to 
follow  him,  and  they  stood  leaning  on  the  top- 
most bar,  one  on  each  side. 

"You  never  were  the  fellow  to  leave  a  thing 
half  done,"  pleaded  Holdsworth.  "You  have 
given  me  more  chances  than  any  man  on  earth, 
give  me  this  one  more.  Let  me  try.  I  think  she 
cares  for  me." 

Crozier  actually  smiled — the  last  remark  was 
so  absurdly  characteristic  of  the  man.  The 
singer  had  pulled  a  little  branch  of  black-thorn 
from  the  hedge,  and  was  biting  it  pensively. 

"You  forget,"  he  said  ironically,  "that  I  knew 
you  out  there." 

Holdsworth  looked  at  him. 

"You  mean  .  .  .  that  other  girl,"  he 
whispered. 


90  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

"I  mean  that  other  girl,"  afiFirmed  the  singer. 
There  was  a  peculiar  embarrassment  about  his 
manner  of  speaking  which  Holdsworth  did  not 
understand  until  later. 

"She  is  dead,"  said  Holdsworth,  in  a  softer 
tone. 

Crozier  lifted  his  head  suddenly  as  a  man  lifts 
his  head  upon  hearing  a  distant,  uncertain  sound, 
which  he  cannot  explain.  Still  holding  the  little 
twig  of  blackthorn  between  his  short  strong 
teeth,  he  turned  and  looked  into  his  companion's 
eyes. 

"  That  is  a  lie!  "  he  said,  almost  exultingly, 

Holdsworth  promptly  made  himself  safe. 

■"To  the  best  of  my  knowledge  she  is  dead." 

"She  is  alive,"  said  Crozier,  moving  a  little, 
and  crossing  his  feet  in  order  to  lean  more  com- 
fortably against  the  stile. 

"  Where  is  she  ?" 

"I  am  too  kindly  disposed  toward  her  to  tell 
you  that,"  said  the  singer. 

"By  God,  Crozier,  you're  a  hard  man!"  ex- 
claimed Holdsworth. 

Before  replying  the  other  turned  and  looked 
speculatively  at  him. 

"Perhaps  I  am,"  he  said  in  a  softer  manner. 
"  Perhaps  I  am,  but  you  have  done  it.  You  have 
shaken  my  faith  in  human  nature  more  than  any- 
thing or  any  person  1  have  met." 

Holdsworth  turned  away  and  looked  across 
the  level  meadows  where  the  snow  lay  whitely. 


RESURRECTION  PIE  gn 

His  companion  stood  in  a  square,  immovable 
way,  witii  his  shoulders  against  the  polished  bar 
of  the  stile.  He  brushed  aside  his  mustache  with 
that  peculiar  backward  movement  of  the  fingers 
which  was  the  only  quick  thing  about  him ;  com- 
ing at  times  in  strange  contrast  as  a  suggestion 
of  powers  quiescent. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Holdsworth,  "that  it  is  hard 
for  you  to  realize  the  position  of  a  fellow  who^ 
has  fought  against  bad  luck  from  the  very  be- 
ginning. Hitherto  I  have  had  nothing  to  save 
me,  nothing  to  urge  me  on  to  better  things.. 
With  you  it  is  different." 

"What  have  I  ?"  interrupted  the  singer. 

"  You.?    Why,  you  have  your  voice." 

"Yes,"  returned  Crozier  slowly,  without  any 
suggestion  of  vanity,  speaking  as  if  the  posses- 
sion were  something  that  he  had  found  at  the 
roadside.     "  Yes,  that  is  true.     I  have  my  voice." 

"And  now,"  continued  the  other,  "  now  that 
I  have  a  real  chance,  surely  you  will  let  me  try 
and  hold  it." 

"You  forget    .     .     .     the  other  girl! " 

"  I  believe  she  is  dead." 

"  I  know  for  a  positive  fact  that  she  is  alive." 

"  Then,"  exclaimed  Holdsworth,  "tell  me  her 
address." 

"What  good  would  it  do  her?  What  good 
would  it  do  you  ?" 

"Well,"  began  Holdsworth,  with  the  hesita- 
tion of  a  man  who  is  not  telling  the  strict  truths 


92  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

"of  course  I  owe  her  some  reparation.  I  could 
at  least  see  that  she  is  not  suffering  from  want." 

"  Oh,  that  is  all  right,"  said  Crozier  unguard- 
edly. 

Holdsworth  looked  at  him  sharply. 

"  Indeed,"  he  said,  slowly  clasping  his  hand 
round  his  weak  chin,  half-hidden  by  a  fair  beard 
of  apparently  recent  growth,  "you  seem  to  know 
.a  good  deal  about  it." 

The  singer  made  no  reply.  He  moved  his  legs 
slightly,  and  taking  a  case  from  his  pocket,  se- 
Jected  a  cigarette  from  it  which  he  lighted,  while 
his  companion  watched  every  movement  with  a 
puzzled  expression. 

"  How  is  it  all  right  .^"  he  continued.  "Does 
she  make  her  own  living  or,  or  .  .  .  is  it 
charity?" 

Crozier  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  glanced  at 
his  companion's  face  through  a  cloud  of  smoke. 

"  1  suppose  you  would  call  it  charity." 

"Charity,"  muttered  the  other  jealously, 
"  whose  charity  ?'' 

The  singer  smoked  in  silence,  looking  straight 
in  front  of  him  with  contracted  eyebrows.  He 
■would  not  answer  the  question,  but  Holdsworth 
knew  now. 

"I  don't  understand  you,  Crozier,"  he  said  un- 
steadily. Then  suddenly  jealousy,  that  strange 
unhealthy  jealousy  which  inconstant  men  suffer 
on  hearing  or  suspecting  that  another  has  taken 
up  what  they  have  left,  came  into  his  heart. 


RESURKECTION  PIE  9^ 

"Charity,"  he  insinuated,  "charity  from  a 
young  man  to  a  devilish  pretty  girl.  People- 
might  misconstrue  it." 

"That  is  my  business!" 

Crozier  moved  away,  and  his  companion! 
vauhed  over  the  stile  and  followed  him. 

"Crozier,"  he  hissed,  "give  me  her  address.  ' 

"Why?" 

"  Hang  it,  man,  I  care  for  her  still." 

Crozier  walked  on  rapidly.  He  heaved  a 
weary  sigh. 

"You  have  a  large  heart,"  he  said  with  biting 
sarcasm. 

"1  thought  she  was  dead,"  pleaded  the  other. 
"  1  did,  indeed." 

"And  so  turned  to  the  living  ?" 

"  I  suppose  so." 

Crozier  laughed  unpleasantly  and  made  no 
further  comment. 

"1  believe,"  said  Holdsworth  presently,  "that 
you  love  Elma  Valliant  yourself." 

The  singer  turned  and  looked  at  him  gravelv. 
His  cigarette  was  almost  finished.  He  drew  one 
long  inhalation  and  threw  the  burning  end  into 
the  snow,  where  it  fizzled  faintly.  Then  he 
emitted  the  smoke  pensively  in  a  thin  spiral 
column. 

"You  are  at  perfect  liberty,"  he  said  quietly^ 
and  without  any  suggestion  of  embarrassment, 
"to  believe  anything  you  like.  It  will  not  affect 
me.     For  the  sake  of  convenience  we  will  sav 


94  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

that  I  want  Elma  Valliant  for  myself,  and  con- 
sequently if  I  catch  you  endeavouring  to  take  the 
Avind  out  of  my  sails  I  will  make  things  uncom- 
monly hot     And  now  let  us  drop  the  subject." 

They  walked  home  in  silence.  It  was  not  that 
there  was  only  the  choice  of  speaking  of  the  past 
or  keeping  silence.  They  could  have  conversed 
pleasantly  enough  upon  indifferent  topics  if  they 
tiad  so  wished,  or  if  it  had  been  necessary  owing 
to  the  presence  of  others;  but  both  were  occu- 
pied with  their  own  thoughts,  and  they  knew 
•each  other  well  enough  to  find  silence  devoid  of 
embarrassment. 

Samuel  Crozier  was  by  no  means  a  domineer- 
ing man.  He  found  nothing  but  displeasure  and 
disgust  in  the  position  in  which  he  was  placed. 
Some  men  there  are  who  take  delight  in  the 
mere  sense  of  a  commanding  position;  to  possess 
power  over  their  fellows,  to  dictate  the  coming 
and  going  of  others,  is  in  itself  a  distinct  satis- 
faction. These  men  were  undoubtedly  bullies  at 
school.  But  the  ex-sailor  was  not  of  this  class, 
and  even  while  accusing  him  of  it,  Holdsworth 
knew  that  he  was  no  bully.  Nevertheless  there 
was  in  the  man  the  instinct  of  exacting  obedience 
which,  like  the  art  of  making  music  or  writing 
books,  crops  up  in  unexpected  quarters  where  it 
is  frequently  allowed  to  run  to  waste.  Frail 
women  often  have  it  while  some  big  men  cannot 
acquire  it  even  when  conscious  of  the  failing. 
Perhaps  this   instinct  had  been  fostered  greatly 


RESURRECTION  PIE  95, 

by  the  fact  that  Crozier  had,  when  quite  a  boy, 
found  himself  in  a  position  of  command  over 
men  old  enough  to  be  his  father — perhaps  it  was 
merely  a  part  of  his  nature.  Be  that  how  it 
may,  he  never  doubted  that  Holdsworth  must 
obey  him,  although  their  wills  had  clashed  before, 
when  the  gold  lace  on  his  own  sleeve  gave  him  ai 
practically  unlimited  power  over  the  unruly  blue- 
jacket, which  he  hesitated  to  take  advantage  of.. 
He  had  not  lost  sight  of  the  fact  that  this  man; 
was  under  the  ban  of  naval  law.  His  term  of 
service  was  not  complete,  and  he  was  liable  at 
any  time  to  be  arrested  and  punished  by  ai 
lengthened  service  before  the  mast.  This  knowl- 
edge, however,  Crozier  never  thought  of  using. 
He  argued  (wrongly  perhaps)  that  he  was  no^ 
longer  in  Her  Majesty's  service,  and  that  it  was 
not  his  business  to  inform  on  runaways. 

Holdsworth,  although  coldly  silent,  was  not 
sullen.  He  was  too  light-hearted,  too  sanguine, 
and  too  reckless  to  indulge  in  a  display  of  temper 
lasting  for  any  space  of  time.  His  sins  of  the- 
past  troubled  him  very  little.  Of  the  unfortu- 
nate woman  whose  existence  had  been  summarily 
recalled  to  his  memory  that  afternoon,  he  thought 
lightly  enough.  With  the  self-deception  which 
comes  so  easily  to  men  of  his  stamp,  he  argued 
that  she  had  had  herself  to  blame.  She  had 
drawn  him  on,  exercised  her  all-powerful  wiles 
and  coquetries  for  the  benefit  of  such  a  notably 
unfaithful  lover  as  a  sailor.     Clearly  her  down- 


96  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

fall  was  at  her  own  door.  With  such  and  similar 
sophistries  he  dismissed  the  subject.  Some  day 
he  would  insist  on  repaying  Crozier  the  money 
which  he  had  spent  in  mistaken  philanthropy. 
In  the  meantime  he  was  in  love  with  Elma 
Valliant — and  she — well — she  most  assuredly 
cared  for  him.  She  was  no  longer  a  mere  chit  of 
a  girl  despite  her  youthful  ways.  There  were  a 
few  young  men  in  the  neighbourhood,  but  none 
of  them  good  enough  for  Elma,  none  of  them  to 
be  compared  with  himself — William  Holdsworth. 

When  they  reached  home  the  others  had  been 
in  some  time,  and  Elma  was  assisting  her  mother 
to  dispense  tea.  It  was  about  this  time  that 
Walter  Varden  arrived  at  the  humiliating  con- 
clusion that  his  personal  importance  was  not 
being  recognized  with  the  sense  of  admiration 
and  respect  which  was  its  due.  He  found  that 
his  opinion  was  rarely  asked,  and  when  vouch- 
safed it  was  sometimes  ignored.  Tom  Valliant 
and  his  friend  were  undoubtedly  the  honoured 
guests.  Tom's  sallies  were  laughed  at,  Crozier's 
opinion  was  asked.  Mr.  Varden  therefore  be- 
thought himself  of  the  expedient  of  showing 
these  country  people  that  he  was  a  man  about 
town,  a  regular  '"'dog,"  with  a  wicked  side  to 
his  character.  With  this  end  in  view  he  looked 
Mephistophelian,  and  asked  Crozier  in  an  audible 
aside  — 

"  How  was  the  fair  Syra  when  you  last  saw 
her,  eh  ?" 


RESURRECTION  PIE  97 

An  unfortunate  silence  followed.  Mrs.  Valliant 
pricked  her  ears,  and  inwardly  thanked  a  wise 
Providence  that  the  butler  was  not  in  the 
room. 

Crozier  stirred  his  tea  and  looked  critically  at 
Varden  from  the  top  of  his  sleek,  mal-formed 
head  to  his  gaitered  feet.  Then  he  answered 
him  with  deliberation  — 

"  I  believe  she  was  enjoying  her  usual  rude 
health." 

Then  to  Elma's  infinite  relief,  Tom  Valliant 
came  forward  with  his  ready  merriment. 

"Now  don't — don't/"  he  exclaimed,  holding 
up  a  warning  tea-spoon.  "Please  draw  a  veil 
over  city  vices.  Syra,  as  it  happens,  is  only  a 
young  person  who  attends  to  the  inward  require- 
ments of  St.  Antony's;  but  still,  let  us  draw  a 
curtain  over  your  wild  career.  Remember, 
Varden,  that  I  am  young;  spare  this  youthful 
cheek;  and  if  you — you  dog — have  led  Sam 
away  on  the  downward  slope,  do  not  breathe 
such  darksome  hints  to  me!  " 

The  situation  w*as  saved.  Crozier  created  a 
masterly  diversion  with  a  plate  of  bread-and- 
butter,  and  Varden  wondered  vaguely  whether 
he  had  made  a  fool  of  himself.  It  was  a  pity, 
however  that  Holdsworth  happened  to  be  pres- 
ent. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE   ACADEMY   OF   CHEERFULNESS 

Will  any  enterprising  person  join  with  heart 
and  hand  and  purse  in  setting  up  an  Academy 
where  the  cultivation  of  cheerfulness  shall  receive 
sole  and  special  care  ? 

In  the  Academy  of  Cheerfulness,  the  genuine 
article  shall  be  cultivated.  At  the  head  of  it  we 
will  place  an  elderly  unmarried  lady — to  be 
frank,  an  old  maid — who  has  seen  sorrow  and 
waded  in  it  since  her  girlhood.  For  patrons  and 
directors  we  shall  have  a  middle-aged  doctor 
who  has  stood  in  a  hundred  sick-rooms  by  the 
bedside  where  Death  was  hovering,  alone  un- 
moved amidst  the  tearful  watchers,  and  the 
vicar  who  has  knelt  at  the  other  side  of  that  same 
bed.  To  these  we  shall  leave  the  choice  of  pro- 
fessors, who  must,  however, 'be  mostly  gathered 
from  the  ranks  of  the  unwed. 

Had  such  an  institution  been  in  existence  when 
Tom  Valliant  was  a  St.  Antony's  man  it  would 
have  found  in  him  an  apt  and  ready  pupil. 
Without  it,  however,  he  was  studying  more  or 
less  successfully  by  himself. 

Elma  wanted  to  talk  to  Samuel  Crozier  about 
this  matter,  and  in  walking  home  from  church 


THE  ACADEMY  OF  CHEERFULNESS     99 

on  Sunday  evening  the  opportunity  presented  it- 
self. Tom  was  in  front  with  his  uncle  and  aunt, 
and  the  squire's  hearty  apoplectic  laugh  came 
back  to  them  through  the  still  night  air  at  in- 
tervals. It  was  probably  freezing  very  hard,  but 
iis  the  air  was  quite  still,  the  cold  was  not  un- 
pleasant, an-d  no  one  evinced  a  desire  to  walk 
quickly,  • 

"I  am  sure  Tom  will  send  papa  into  a  fit  some 
day,"  said  Elma,  after  a  little  pause,  during  which 
an  extra  loud  laugh  had  reached  their  ears. 

"  Yes;  he  is  a  cheerful  soul,"  answered  Crozier, 
gravely,  for  he  knew  that  her  humour  just  then 
was  grave.  The  clear  bright  moonlight  resting 
softly  on  the  sleeping  land  was  enough  to  make 
her  a  little  pensive  and  quiet. 

"  Is  he  always  like  that  ?  "  she  asked. 

He  looked  down  at  her,  his  deep  eyes  con- 
tracted and  almost  searching. 

"When  he  remembers,"  he  answered,  divin- 
ing her  thoughts. 

She  smiled  a  little,  but  did  not  look  up,  and 
they  walked  on  without  speaking  for  a  few  mo- 
ments. 

"And  you,"  she  said,  in  a  lighter  tone,  "are 
you  like  that  too  when  you  are  alone  with  him  ?  " 

"No,"  he  answered,  with  a  low  laugh,  "no; 
there  is  a  lamentable  monotony  about  me." 

She  did  not  smile.  Her  lips  were  slightly 
parted,  and  he  saw  the  gleam  of  her  short  white 
teeth,  but  they  were  not  parted  in  mirth. 


loo  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

"What  -a  strange  friendship!"  she  murmured. 
"  What  a  strange  friendship  it  is!  " 

He  set  back  his  head  and  looked  up  to  the 
heavens  with  the  eye  of  an  amateur  astrono- 
mer. 

"It  is  convenient,"  he  said,  "and  very  com- 
monphice,  I  can  assure  you." 

"Are  youjnuch  together.^"  she  asked. 

"Oh  yes.  We  see  each  other  every  day,  and 
usually  have  at  least  one  meal  together." 

"At  Syra's.^"  she  asked,  carelessly. 

"At  Myra's,"  he  corrected.  "Syra  is  only 
Myra's  assistant." 

"Myra,"  she  said,  "is  the  motherly  old  lady 
who  sees  that  the  students  do  not  get  into  mis- 
chief, is  she  not  .^" 

"Yes." 

"And  Syra.^"  she  inquired  shortly. 

"Syra  is  young  and  charming,"  he  answered. 
"  All  the  students  fall  in  love  with  her  in  turn." 

"Is  she  pretty  and  .  .  .  and  lady-like.?" 
asked  Elma,  drawing  her  fur  boa  closer  round 
her  throat. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  in  the  same  careless,  per- 
functory way.  "  Yes,  she  is  both.  She  is  rather 
interesting  also." 

"  Indeed!  " 

By  that  single  word  she  managed  to  shelve 
the  subject  most  completely,  and  a  sudden  si- 
lence came  over  them.  Then  he  returned  to  the 
question  of  Toms  cheerfulness. 


THE  ACADEMY  OF  CHEERFULNESS    loi 

"Why  do  you  ask  whether  Tom  is  always 
cheerful?"  he  inquired. 

She  looked  up  toward  him.  He  was  looking 
straight  in  front  of  him,  and  did  not  appear  to  be 
aware  of  her  scrutiny.  The  moon  was  nearly 
full,  and  its  soft  light  detracted  a  little  from  the 
habitual  sternness  of  his  expression.  The  face 
she  saw  there  was  merely  that  of  a  strong, 
thoughtful  man,  with  perhaps  a  somewhat  un- 
usual curve  of  lip  and  chin,  imparting  a  pleasant 
sense  of  steadfastness. 

"  It  sometimes  seems  to  me,"  she  said,  frankly, 
"that  it  is  not  quite  natural.  And  yet  thei'e  is 
surely  no  reason  why  he  should  assume  it — 
there  can  be  nothing  on  his  mind,  I  mean,  noth- 
ing that  he  wishes  to  hide  from  us." 

He  showed  no  surprise.  In  fact  when  he  an- 
swered her  his  manner  clearly  betrayed  that  such 
thoughts  had  passed  through  his  own  mind  also. 
His  voice  was  gentler  than  usual,  with  a  sugges- 
tion of  mutual  confidence  in  it,  of  which  he  was 
probably  unaware. 

"It  may  be  the  effect,"  he  said,  "of  having 
concealed  the  affair  of  that  book.  Concealment 
leaves  its  mark  upon  men.  1  know  a  man  who 
is  now  a  celebrated  writer,  but  his  own  name  is 
quite  unknown.  When  he  was  young  he  lived 
a  double  life.  In  his  family  he  was  merely  the 
second  son — a  Government  clerk,  with  no  great 
prospect  of  advancement.  Under  his  assumed 
name  he  was  one  of  the  most  prominent  literary 


I02  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

men  of  the  day.  Of  course  it  was  a  mistake; 
but  he  began  with  the  idea  of  suppressing  his 
identity  with  the  promising  writer  until  he  was 
sure  of  his  success,  and  then  it  was  difficult  to 
tell  the  secret.  It  is  all  out  now,  for  it  happened 
years  ago,  but  there  is  somthing  unnatural  and 
almost  furtive  about  him  still." 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  softly,  "it  may  be 
that." 

She  was  not  thinking  of  the  novelist  whose 
thirst  for  personal  fame  had  never  been  satisfied. 
The  argument  was  ingenious.  It  might  apply  to 
Tom  Valliant,  but  she  thought  that  it  did  not,  if 
indeed  she  was  giving  attention  to  the  argument 
at  all.  Probably  she  was  thinking  of  the  arguer, 
a  way  women  have.  Perhaps  she  was  treating 
the  little  story  merely  as  a  glimpse  of  this  man's 
past  life — this  indifferent  idler  who  only  displayed 
energy  when  the  effort  was  wrung  from  him — 
who  deliberately  chose  to  waste  one  of  the  great- 
est gifts  vouchsafed  to  men.  And  she  wondered 
indefinitely  whether  there  was  a  motive  in  it  all, 
whether  there  was  some  sad  story  hidden  be- 
hind the  glance  of  those  grave  eyes.  Perhaps 
she  pitied  him  a  little,  pitied  his  loneliness — that 
strange  loneliness  of  a  man  living  in  London 
chambers — and  regretted  his  apparent  aimless- 
ness.  It  was  only  by  littie  glimpses  that  he  raised 
the  curtain  over  his  past  existence,  and  Tom  knew 
no  more  than  she  did.  If  directly  questioned,  the 
singer  said  that  he  had  no  past.     He  protested 


THH  ACADEMY  OF  CHEERFULNESS    lo? 

that  his  history  was  like  the  history  of  a  ship's 
bell — the  record  of  certain  voyages  made,  certain 
climates  endured,  and  certain  dangers  passed 
through.  To  the  bell  such  details  served  to  lend 
n  fictitious  interest,  but  the  story  was  not  part  of 
its  individuality,  failing  to  affect  its  tone,  neither 
increasing  nor  detracting  from  its  value. 

"1  wish,"  said  Crozier,  again  returning  to  the 
subject,  "that  Tom  would  really  give  up  medi- 
cine decisively  and  take  to  art." 

"Do  you  think,"  she  said  indifferently,  after  a 
short  pause,  "  that  he  would  really  make  a  name  ?" 

"He  is  more  likely  to  do  so  as  an  artist  than  as 
a  doctor;  but  he  does  not  seem  inclined  to  set 
his  mind  steadily  upon  one  thing.  He  used  not 
to  be  like  that.  It  is  a  recent  development  in  his 
character." 

"I  have  noticed  it  also."  said  Elma;  "and  vet 
he  is  not  what  might  be  called  superficial,  like 
that  Mr.  Varden." 

"No;  he  is  not  superficial." 

"1  wonder  what  it  is,"  she  murmured  fore- 
bodingly. 

He  glanced  down  at  her,  brushed  aside  his 
mustache,  thrust  his  hands  into  his  coat-pockets, 
and  looked  straight  in  front  of  him. 

"  I  think  I  know  what  it  is." 

"  Please  tell  me,"  she  begged. 

"  Evil  influence,"  he  answered. 

"Ah!"  she  exclaimed,  as  if  she  had  expected 
it. 


104  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

He  laughed  rather  awkwardly. 

"Not  the  influence  you  mean,"  he  explained 
hastily.  "It  is  that  of  the  men  he  associates 
with  in  town.  We  are  apparently  an  idle  lot; 
we  get  up  late,  and  we  lounge  the  day  away, 
but  it  is  not  really  idleness.  The  explanation  lies 
in  the  fact  that  we  are  mostly  night-birds — ^jour- 
nalists, actors,  singers,  and  writers — our  work 
begins  when  most  people  begin  their  leisure. 
Tom  is  a  day-worker,  and  it  is  a  bad  thing  for 
him  to  associate  with  night-workers.  Do  you 
understand  ?  When  we  are  playing  he  should 
be  at  work,  and  the  temptation  is  very  strong  to 
come  and  play  with  us.  If  he  were  to  study  art 
he  would  get  into  another  set.  They  may  be 
vain,  affected,  and  shallow,  but  the  life  he  will 
lead  among  them  is  a  purer,  healthier,  more  nat- 
ural life  than  that  he  leads  with  us.  1  am  speiik- 
ing  physically  as  well  as  morally.  From  the  lat- 
ter point  of  view  he  is  strong  enough,  but  in 
body  he  is  a  little  shaky,  1  think." 

He  spoke  to  her  as  if  she  were  not  a  frivolous, 
light-hearted  girl  at  all,  without  apologizing  for 
his  gravity,  without  attempting  to  suppress  de- 
tails, or  make  light  of  serious  facts.  And  strange 
to  say  she  liked  being  treated  thus;  she  preferred 
his  gravity  to  the  wit  of  other  men. 

"And  you  think,"  she  said,  "that  it  will  be 
wise  for  him  to  leave  St.  Antony's  if  it  is  only  in 
order  to  get  away  from  your  influence.''" 

He  looked  at  her  in  a  puzzled  way,  failing  to 


THE  ACADEMY  OF  CHEERFULNESS    los 

understand  whether  the  pronoun  was  intended 
in  the  singular  or  plural  sense. 

"Yes,"  he  answered  nevertheless,  "1  do." 

"You  think,"  she  continued  judicially,  "that 
this  influence  is  doing  him  harm  .?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  wondering. 

"Then,"  she  said,  very  gravely,  "I  think  you 
are  quite  wrong,  1  think  you  are  doing  a  delib- 
erate injustice  to  Tom  and  .  .  .  and  to  your- 
self, Mr.  Crozier.  Your  influence  over  him  can 
be  for  nothing  but  good,  and  you  must  be  pur- 
posely blinding  yourself  to  the  fact  if  you  do  not 
recognize  it  as  I  do." 

He  drew  in  a  deep,  unsteady  breath  through 
his  parted  lips,  and  she  heard  it  distinctly  as  they 
walked  along  the  sandy  road.  Then  he  laughed 
suddenly  in  a  deprecating,  apologetic  way  and 
said  — 

"It  is  very  good  of  you  to  say  so,  but  I  am 
afraid  you  are  too  charitable.  Valliant  requires 
something  very  different  from  my  society.  He 
wants  stimulating  and  encouraging — urging  on 
instead  of  holding  back.  Some  one  younger  and 
brighter,  more  imaginative  perhaps,  and  .  .  . 
and  less  experienced." 

"In  fact,"  she  exclaimed  with  a  laugh,  "some 
one  who  is  not  so  desperately  old  and  cynical 
and  sceptical  as  Samuel  Crozier,  Esquire." 

"That  is  so,"  he  assented  meekly. 

They  were  now  very  near  to  Goldheath  Court, 
and  the  front-door  stood  invitingly  open,  while 


io6  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

•a  flood  of  warm  light  shone  out  upon  the  snow- 
clad  earth  and  fairy-like  trees,  where  the  white 
frost  nestled  and  gleamed. 

"Well,"  she  said,  almost  coldly,  he  thought, 
"it  has  been  the  erroneous  custom  of  us  all  at 
Goldheath  to  be  thankful  that  Tom  had  you  near 
him  as  a  friend  and  adviser.  Perhaps  it  would 
not  be  politic  to  dispel  that  illusion  now — or  to 
attempt  to  dispel  it." 

Then  she  passed  in  front  of  him  beneath  the 
broad  hospitable  porch,  and  he  followed  silently 
with  a  singularly  lifeless  look  in  his  close-set  eyes. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  SCHOOL   OF   MELANCHOLY 

It  does  not'  seem  a  necessity  that  melancholy 
should  follow  on  the  footsteps  of  solitude.  But 
the  state  of  loneliness  has  attendant  mental  con- 
ditions which  might  easily  be  mistaken  for  mel- 
ancholy, or  degenerate  into  it.  The  great  mental 
difference  between  men  and  women  is  merely  a 
matter  of  comparative  solitude.  The  most  manly 
women  are  only  daughters  who  have  led  com- 
paratively lonely  lives,  slept  in  a  room  by  them- 
selves, formed  their  characters  with  their  own 
hands  and  without  the  influence  of  contemporary 
girls  and  women.  The  most  womanly  women 
are  those  who  have  had  many  brothers  and  sis- 
ters, who  have  known  a  nursery  life,  who  have 
shared  their  sleeping-room  with  sister  or  sisters, 
who  have  always  had  a  recipient  at  hand  for 
thoughts  that  come  at  night  when  they  are 
sleepy,  and  those  that  come  in  the  morning  when 
they  are  sleepier.  They  may  not  be  so  clever 
— these  womanly  ones;  so  well  read,  so  deeply 
learned,  so  weighty  in  conversation;  but  "  Heaven 
bless  them!" 

There  is  more  solitude  in  the  lives  of  most  men 
than  is  generally  realized,  and  one  of  the  most 
107 


io8  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

solitary  beings  on  earth  is  the  man  who  lives  in 
chambers  in  London.  In  the  very  centre— at  the 
hub  of  the  wheel  of  life — he  is  alone.  He  goes 
to  bed  at  night  without  saying  even  the  words 
"Good-night,"  because  there  is  no  one  to  say 
them  to.  There  may  indeed  be  a  photograph  on 
the  mantelpiece,  but  it  is  not  our  business  to  in- 
quire whether  he  salutes  that  or  no.  In  the 
morning  he  rises,  and  passes  from  his  bedroom 
to  his  sitting-room  to  start  a  new  day,  to  take 
one  more  step  upward  or  downward,  without 
exchanging  a  salutation  of  any  description,  with- 
out the  cheering  sound  of  a  human  voice,  though 
it  be  only  raised  to  wish  a  perfunctory  good- 
morning.  Now  all  this  must  assuredly  leave  its 
mark  upon  men.  It  fosters  habitudes  of  silence 
and  reserve;  in  some  cases  it  leads  to  brooding 
and  discontent. 

Most  men  pass  some  portion  of  their  lives  alone 
thus,  and  carry  the  effect  of  it  on  with  them. 
Many  a  fine  sense  of  humour  has  thus  died  an 
unnatural  death. 

On  the  Monday  following  the  events  just 
chronicled,  Samuel  Crozier  returned  to  London, 
and  recommenced  his  solitary  life.  The  clean 
pavement  of  Lime  Court  knew  again  his  firm 
tread.  The  man  who  dwelt  above  him  heard 
once  more  that  low  murmurous  voice  in  the 
morning  when  he  was  dressing.  The  piano  was 
opened  again;  and  again  Mrs.  Sanders  had  to 
put  up  with  gentle  irony.     The  good  lady  had 


THE  SCHOOL  OF  MELANCHOLY      109 

been  suffering  from  "indigestion,  crool,"  which 
Crozier  attributed  to  the  fact  that  his  whiskey- 
decanter  had  been  locked  away  for  three  days. 

Tranquilly  he  returned  to  his  old  unsatisfactory 
.ways.  There  were  many  letters  awaiting  his  at- 
tention, and  these  he  answered  in  a  business-like 
manner,  shortly  and  tersely,  before  dressing  ta 
dine  at  his  club,  and  go  on  to  the  concert-room 
where  he  was  to  sing  afterward. 

He  was  in  good  voice  that  night,  and  as  usual 
scored  a  decided  success.  His  reception  was 
such  as  would  have  turned  the  head  of  a  less 
self-contained  man.  He,  however,  merely  bowed 
his  thanks,  and  looked  with  a  quiet  emotionless 
smile  upon  the  sea  of  upturned  faces,  before 
turning  to  give  his  accompanyist  the  signal  to 
begin.  Then  he  stood  in  his  square  sailor-like 
way,  and  sang  his  song  without  affectation,, 
without  emotion;  and,  as  he  called  a  hansom  af- 
terward, and  drove  off  to  a  club  with  a  brother- 
musician,  he  was  supremely  unconscious  that  the 
full  notes  of  his  splendid  voice  had  found  some- 
thing to  say  to  more  than  one  heart  that  night. 

On  his  late  breakfast-table  the  next  morning 
there  were  several  letters,  and  as  he  took  the  top 
one  up  and  threw  it  aside  he  suddenly  stopped, 
humming  a  popular  tune — stopped  abruptly  in 
the  middle  of  a  bar.  The  superscription  on  the 
envelope  was  in  a  somewhat  large  hand,  but 
firm  and  clear,  while  the  words  showed  no  tend- 
ency to  run  down  hill  at  the  end. 


no  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

"  From  Elma!  "  he  muttered,  with  unconscious 
familiarity.  And  then  he  wali<ed  to  the  window 
with  the  letter  in  his  hand,  while  Mrs.  Sanders' 
culinary  productions  grew  cold  and  tough. 

Before  he  opened  the  envelope  he  was  hum- 
ming again — a  hymn  this  time.  Although  the 
letter  occupied  three  sides  of  a  sheet  of  paper, 
the  perusal  of  it  was  a  matter  of  a  few  seconds 
only.  Then  he  refolded  it,  and  placing  it  in  the 
envelope,  stood  at  the  window  looking  absently 
down  into  Lime  Court,  where  a  milkman  was 
exchanging  amourous  chaff  with  a  housekeeper's 
•daughter.  Then  he  unfolded  the  letter  and  read 
it  a  second  time. 

"Dear  Sam, 

"Though  a  fairer  hand  than  mine  guides 
this  halted  pen,  its  effusions  emanate  from  my 
brain  alone.  Put  on  your  hat,  and  go  round  to 
St.  Antony's,  then  hurry  on  to  Myra's  with  the 
dread  tidings  that  Thomas  Valliant  is  laid  low. 
Breathe  into  the  ear  of  the  concerned  that  he  has 
broken  the  small  bone  of  his  leg  (which  is  strictly 
true),  ask  them  to  shed  a  tear,  and  to  keep  their 
peckers  up,  as  the  poet  hath  it.  The  spirit  of 
emulation  was  aroused  in  this  breast  yesterday 
by  the  superior  skating  of  Mr.  Holdsworth,  and 
these  legs  getting  mixed  up  there  was  a  crash 
and  a  small  crack.  The  crash  was  my  head 
which  held,  the  crack  was  the  small  bone  as 
aforesaid  which  went,    it  is  a  neat  enough  break. 


THE  SCHOOL  OF  MELANCHOLY      iir 

and  has  just  been  nicely  fixed  up  by  a  local  prac- 
titioner, who  actually  knows  more  about  it  thart 
the  patient.  Ah!  my  boy,  who  wouldn't  have 
a  broken  leg  ?  A  comfortable  sofa,  a  roaring. 
fire,  an  untidy  library,  and    .     .     ." 

Here  the  letter  broke  off  suddenly,  and  below 
was  written  in  another  handwriting  — 

"Secretary  struck  work. 

"  Yours, 

"Tom  Valliant.'^ 

Elma,  however,  had  managed  to  scribble  a 
postscript  on  her  own  account. 

"  He  has  been  and  is  still  in  horrible  pain,  but 
keeps  up  his  spirits — a  little  too  high,  perhaps, 
to  be  quite  natural.  You  know  how  plucky  he 
is.— E.  V." 

"Yes,"  said  Crozier  aloud,  "I  know  how 
plucky  he  is.  It  is  not  so  very  difficult  to  be 
plucky,  however,  when  one  is  winning  the  day.'' 

He  folded  the  letter,  and  turned  to  his  lonely 
breakfast-table.  Then  he  raised  the  cover  of  a 
dish  critically,  and  sniffed  the  subtle  odour  of 
grilled  kidney. 

"  1  know,"  he  added  meditatively,  being  in  af- 
terthought, "  how  lucky  he  is  also." 

Then  he  sat  down  and  drew  the  morning  pa- 
per toward  him,  humming  an  operatic  air  as  he 
poured  out  the  coffee.  Toward  the  end  of  a  re- 
markably good  meal  he  suddenly  pushed  his  cup 


112  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

away  and  leant  back  in  his  deep  chair.  It  was  a 
favourite  attitude  of  his,  this,  combining  comfort 
and  the  suggestion  of  another  cup  of  coffee  with 
his  cigarette;  and  he  usually  brushed  aside  his 
mustache  with  a  hasty  movement  before 
stretching  out  his  leg  for  greater  facility  in  find- 
ing his  match-box.  He  turned  his  head  side- 
ways and  gazed  peacefully  out  of  the  dirty 
window  at  the  chimney-pots  of  number  5  a, 
Lime  Court  opposite.  The  result  of  his  medita- 
tions was  of  a  damnatory  nature. 

"Hang  Holdsworth!"  he  said.  Then  he 
lighted  his  cigarette  and  threw  the  extinguished 
match  over  his  shoulder  on  the  off  chance  of  its 
falling  into  the  fireplace  behind  him.  As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact  it  found  a  resting-place  in  one  of  his 
boots  airing  on  the  hearth-rug,  but  the  ways  of 
bachelors  are  proverbially  reprehensible,  and  he 
did  not  care. 

Before  he  had  condescended  to  explain  his  rea- 
sons for  condemning  Holdsworth  to  an  ignomin- 
ious death  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  a 
fair  grave  young  man  entered  the  room. 

"Ah,  Leonard!"  said  Crozier,  rising;  "glad  to 
see  you." 

Dr.  Leonard,  house-surgeon  at  St.  Antony's 
Hospital,  came  forward  with  his  small  white  hand 
extended. 

"How  are  you,  Crozier?"  he  inquired.  As  he 
spoke  he  gazed  into  the  stalwart  singer's  face  with 
rather  mournful  eyes,  full  of  anxious  question. 


THE  SCHOOL  OF  MELANCHOLY      113 

There  was  clearly  nothing  the  matter  with  Cro- 
zier;  he  was  as  strong  and  robust  and  healthy  as 
men  are  created  in  these  days,  but  Wilson  Leon- 
ard was  a  young  doctor,  and  a  conscientious  man. 
He  was  overwhelmed  just  then  by  the  gravity  of 
his  profession.  For  him  every  man  and  woman 
was  a  possible  patient.  There  were  unsuspected 
diseases  lurking  in  every  limb,  unthought-of  germs 
in  every  breath.  The  whole  world  was  for  him 
a  hot-bed  of  sickness,  of  bodily  woe.  His  some- 
what sensitive  organization  had  been  seriously 
affected  by  the  long  and  painful  training  through 
which  he  had  passed.  He  had  never  grown  cal- 
lous. Like  many,  he  took  human  woes  and  hu- 
man weaknesses  too  seriously.  At  the  hospital 
he  was  considered  an  alarmist,  and  over-anxious. 
Not,  be  it  understood,  on  his  own  account,  for 
he  never  knew  the  fear  of  infection,  which,  like' 
other  cowardices,  is  unaccountable  and  in  the 
blood.  He  had  yet  to  learn  that  men  fight  for  life 
as  they  never  fought  for  anything  else.  He  had 
yet  to  shake  off  a  certain  suspicion  anent  the 
power  of  his  own  knowledge,  the  weight  of  his 
own  endeavours,  and  the  infallibility  of  his  tac- 
tics against  the  hosts  of  sickness.  This  was  not 
a  personal  doubt,  but  a  professional  realization. 
Among  other  things  he  had  learnt  how  very  little 
doctors  know;  how  very  much  they  have  to 
guess,  and  what  a  great  lot  they  leave  to  nature. 
Doubtless  he  has  gained  a  greater  confidence  by 
this  time,  or  has  acquired  the  noble  art  of  looking 


114  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

wise  when  sorely  puzzled,  which  serves  just  as 
well.  At  all  events,  he  is  high  up  in  the  profes- 
sional tree  now,  and  his  coming  into  a  house  is  as 
that  of  a  good  angel  or  a  demi-god,  so  comfort- 
ing, so  hopeful,  so  full  of  relief  is  the  sound  of 
his  footsteps  on  the  stairs. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Crozier,  "and  have  a  cup  of 
coffee.     It  is  tepid  still." 

"Thanks,"  replied  the  doctor,  absently  looking 
at  his  watch. 

The  singer  noticed  the  action,  and  smiled  in  a 
barefaced  and  shameless  manner.  It  was  past 
ten  o'clock. 

"Here,"  he  said,  "take  a  cigarette,  and  never 
mind  the  time.  1  suppose  you  have  been  up 
hours,  curing  the  diseased,  healing  the  wounded, 
comforting  the  s'ck.  Thank  God  I  am  not  a 
doctor." 

Wilson  Leonard  rarely  smiled,  but  he  looked  at 
the  singer  with  a  soft  expression  about  the  eyes 
which  meant  the  same  thing.  Then  he  passed 
his  bloodless  hand  up  over  his  high,  broad  fore- 
head, where  the  hair  was  already  very  thin. 

"I  have  been  at  it  all  night,"  he  said  simply,. 
"  more  or  less." 

Crozier  pushed  the  cigarette-case  toward  his 
visitor,  and  looked  sympathetic. 

"1  came,"  continued  the  young  doctor,  "to 
ask  you  where  Tom  Valliant  is." 

"  He's  in  very  comfortable  quarters,"  answered 
Crozier,  looking  into  his  empty  cup  as  if  he  ex- 


THh  SCHOOL  OF  MELANCHOLY      115 

pected  to  find  some  interesting  fish  swimming 
there. 

"Is  he  ill?"  asked  Leonard,  with  a  peculiar 
shortness  of  enunciation.  His  lips  were  slightly 
iipart,  and  the  smoke  hovered  about  his  face. 
Again  he  looked  too  anxious,  too  much  as  if  it 
were  his  duty  to  sympathize  with  all  the  sorrow 
on  earth. 

Crozier  glanced  involuntarily  toward  the  envel- 
ope which  lay  on  the  table  near  his  hand.  The 
address  was  obviously  written  in  a  girlish  hand, 
quite  unlike  Tom's  careless  style. 

"I  had  a  letter  from  him  this  morning,"  the 
singer  said.  "  He  has  broken  the  small  bone  in 
his  leg — nothing  much,  he  says;  but  it  will  keep 
him  on  his  back  for  a  few  days,  I  suppose.?" 

The  doctor  detected  the  interrogation. 

"That  is  nothing  very  serious,"  he  answered. 
■"  He  will  have  to  be  careful  for  a  short  time,  that 
is  all." 

In  matters  of  surgery  Dr.  Wilson  Leonard  was 
confident  enough,  and  a  daring  operator. 

"He  writes,"  continued  Crozier,  "that  it  has 
been  seen  to  and  that  he  is  very  comfortable." 

The  doctor  rose  and  drank  off  his  coffee. 

"I  am  glad  it  is  only  a  small  break,"  he  said. 
*'  I  was  afraid  when  he  did  not  turn  up  this  morn- 
ing that  there  was  something  wrong." 

The  singer  looked  up  into  the.  young  fellow's 
grave  face.  His  deep-set,  earnest  eyes  were  over- 
shadowed. 


ii6  THH  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

"Something  wrong?'"  he  repeated  interroga- 
tively. "1  don't  think  that  Tom  will  go  to  the 
dogs.  He  is  a  tritle  wild  .  .  .  but  .  .  . 
I  suppose  we  have  all  been  a  little  that  way  in 
our  time.  Oh,  no!  There  is  nothing  wrong, 
Leonard! " 

The  doctor  had  placed  his  hat  upon  his  head — 
rather  forward  over  the  eyes,  which  suited  his 
grave  and  refined  style — but  instead  of  leaving 
the  room  he  went  slowly  to  the  fireplace,  and 
stood  there  with  one  foot  on  the  fender,  gazing 
into  the  fire. 

"1  dare  say,",  he  acquiesced,  "that  he  is  right 
enough.  He  goes  too  much  to  Myra's,"  he  added 
after  a  momentary  pause.  "Lives  too  restless  a 
life.  It  is  all  very  well  for  fellows  like  you,  Cro- 
zier;  thick-limbed  fellows  with  a  constitution 
like  an  ostrich,  but  it  is  a  bad  style  of  existence 
for  men  who  are  at  all  shaky.  Besides,  its  a 
stupid,  aimless  waste  of  time.  Of  course  they 
are  clever  fellows  with  whom  he  associates,  but  1 
do  not  see  that  any  of  them  profit  much  by  each 
other's  society,  however  pleasant  it  may  be.  I 
don't  want  you  to  think  that  I  am  meddling,  Sam. 
I  suppose  it  is  none  of  my  business,  beyond  the 
fact  that  I  am  a  St.  Antony's  man.  But  I  don't 
want  Tom  to  go  wrong.  None  of  us  would  like 
that.  He  is  the  best  man  we  have  had  there  in 
my  time,  and  the  nicest.  Everybody  is  fond  of 
Tom  Valliant." 

Crozier  had  turned  his  chair  round.     He  was 


THE  SCHOOL  OF  MHLANCHOL^       117 

sitting  forward  with  his  hands  clasped  round  one 
knee.  His  features  were  slightly  screwed  up  as 
he  looked  toward  his  companion,  doubtless  by 
reason  of  the  smoke  which  curled  up  from  the 
end  of  his  cigarette  into  his  eyes.  He  ignored 
the  personal  hits  contained  in  the  young  doctor's 
remarks  in  a  quiet,  indolent  way.  Indeed  he 
seemed  to  have  been  listening  carelessly,  for  he 
remembered  only  one  little  phrase. 

**Is  Tom  shaky  ?"  he  asked,  without  lowering 
his  eyes. 

Wilson  Leonard  nodded  his  head  gravely. 
Then  he  raised  his  right  hand  and  touched  the 
ieft  side  of  his  waistcoat  significantly. 

"Heart  .  .  .  I  believe,"  he  said  in  a  whis- 
per. 

There  was  silence  in  the  room  for  some  time. 
The  sparrows  twittered  and  chattered  in  the 
lime-tree  outside,  and  over  the  roofs  came  the 
deep  tones  of  Westminster  clock  striking  eleven. 
The  doctor  moved  a  little  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"  1  must  go,"  he  said. 

"  Tell  me,"  said  Crozier,  as  he  rose  and  opened 
the  door  for  his  friend  to  pass  out — "tell  me, 
do  you  think  he  suspects  ?" 

••  1  do  not  know  at  all.  One  of  the  young  'uns 
told  me.  He  found  it  out  when  they  were  ex- 
amining each  other  one  day  in  fun." 

Crozier  usually  practised  after  breakfast  when 
he  had  smoked  one  cigarette,  but  he  now  lighted 
another  soon  after  Dr.  Leonard  had  left  the  room. 


ii8  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

He  stood  upon  the  hearth-rug  facing  the  fire  and 
smoked  it  right  through.  Even  after  he  had 
thrown  the  end  away,  he  stood  there  with  his 
legs  set  slightly  apart  and  his  hands  clasped  be- 
hind his  back,  gazing  into  the  fire  with  a  peculiar 
concentrated  expression  upon  his  dogged  face, 

"  Poor  little  girl! "  he  murmured.  "  Poor  little 
girl!" 

Then  he  went  to  the  piano. 


CHAPTER  XI 

QUICKSAND 

In  the  meantime  life  at  Goldheath  was  very 
pleasant.  The  frost  vanished,  and  for  a  week  it 
appeared  as  if  March  were  to  be  missed  out  of 
Nature's  calendar  that  year.  On  the  moors  the 
yellow  furze  came  peeping  out  among  the  brown 
heather  and  stiff  pine  trees.  In  the  hedgerows 
green  things  began  to  push  their  way  through 
the  moist  soil,  and  there  was  on  all  the  earth  a 
subtle  odour  of  new  verdure. 

After  a  short  and  sharp  winter,  spring  was  at 
hand. 

Tom  Valliant's  broken  bone  progressed  fa- 
mously. Perhaps  spring  had  something  to  say 
to  it — something  that  knit  it  quickly  and  drew  in 
the  strained  sinews  again.  After  a  week  he 
limped  about  merrily  enough.  The  doctor's  high 
dog-cart  drew  up  no  more  before  the  broad  door, 
and  there  was  consequently  a  perceptible  dimi- 
nution in  the  daily  consumption  of  sherry,  as 
noted  by  Tomkins  the  butler. 

And  while  Tom  limped  about  by  Elma's  side 
at  Goldheath,  his  good  name  strode  abroad  in  all 
England  and  across  the  seas.  Not  with  halting 
gait,  but  strongly  and  speedily.  In  a  week  the 
sale  of  the  new  edition  of  the  American  singer's 
119 


I20  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

songs  gained  a  firm  liold  upon  the  public.  Daily 
the  ex-medical  student  received  envelopes  ad- 
dressed in  Crozier's  smooth  running  hand- 
writing, of  which  the  form  and  style  never 
altered  perceptibly  from  day  to  day.  The  man 
was  steadfast  even  to  his  penmanship.  These 
envelopes  contained  no  letter,  but  printed  matter 
only — cuttings  from  newspapers  and  periodicals. 
Praise,  and  only  praise,  tempered  of  course  here 
and  there  by  kindly  advice.  The  work  was 
good,  and  like  all  good  work  it  was  recognized 
by  its  critics.  For  good  work  must  come  to  the 
top,  and  critics  are  just,  let  cynics  say  what  they 
like.  The  public  has  been  invited  ere  now  to  in- 
spect a  collection  of  pictures  rejected  by  a  com- 
mittee of  painters  and  critics,  and  the  result  has 
invariably  been  a  confirmation  of  the  opinion 
given  by  experts.  The  public  has  rejected  the 
pictures  as  well.  A  publisher's  ledger  will  be 
found  to  confirm  in  a  remarkable  degree  the 
literary  critic's  review^. 

Not  only  did  Tom  Valliant's  venture  contain  in 
itself  the  elements  of  success,  but  its  publisher 
knew  that  he  had  done  a  good  stroke  of  busi- 
ness. Moreover  he  was  watched  and  urged  to 
further  endeavours  by  a  certain  singer  who  had 
much  spare  time  upon  his  hands  and  an  excep- 
tionally shrewd  head  upon  his  shoulders. 

So  the  sale  went  on  apace,  and  the  critics 
talked  while  the  object  of  their  surmises  and 
praise  grew  graver  day  by  day  at  Goldheath.     It 


QUICKSAND  I2f 

was  rather  a  remarkable  incident,  this  gravity 
that  came  to  Tom  Valliant  during  his  convales- 
cence, for  convalescence  is  in  itself  a  happy- 
time.  Spring  IS  also  a  happy  time,  for  it  is 
mostly  anticipation,  of  which  all  human  joy  con- 
sisteth  chietly.  Youth  again  is  assuredly  all 
brightness.  Holding  within  his  arms  convales- 
cence, springtime,  and  youth,  Tom's  face  and 
manner  acquired  fresh  gravity  day  by  day. 
There  was  no  sombreness  in  his  demeanour,  no 
pensiveness  nor  outward  signs  of  mental  woe; 
but  the  power  of  turning  everything  to  laughter 
seemed  to  be  no  longer  at  command.  With 
Mrs.  Valliant  he  was  little  changed.  The  audac- 
ity which  was  really  full  of  tact  and  never  im- 
pertinent, was  daringly  displayed  as  of  yore. 
The  careless  little  attentions  and  signs  of  thought- 
fulness  never  failed  to  please  her  cold,  unenthu- 
siastic  heart.  Perhaps  indeed  she  saw  no  differ- 
ence in  this  merry  nephew,  who  had  forced  his 
way  into  her  heart  by  the  sheer  contradiction  of 
his  ways  and  fearlessness  of  his  demeanour  in 
"respect  to  himself.  With  the  old  squire  Tom 
was  hearty,  and  ready  enough  with  the  quick 
repartee  which  never  failed  to  make  him  chuckle 
and  gurgle,  while  he  held  his  back  with  both 
hands  just  where  the  lumbago  struck  him  when 
he  remembered  it.  With  Elma  however,  he 
talked  of  graver  things.  Life,  treated  specula- 
tively, as  we  can  afford  to  treat  it  from  the 
threshold;  the    past  mentioned   with   laughter. 


122  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

awakening  recollections;  but  the  future  was 
never  discussed  in  this  grave  spirit.  Elma  was 
ready  enough,  but  Tom  became  cynical  and 
flippant  at  the  mention  of  anything  beyond  the 
present. 

One  day  they  talked  of  Samuel  Crozier.  Tom 
started  the  subject. 

"  I  know,"  he  said,  "  what  Sam  is  doing.  He 
is  worrying  that  unfortunate  publisher  into  an 
untimely  grave,  in  a  gently  persistent  way,  with 
a  smile.  He  is  hammering  away  at  all  the  critics 
and  art-journalists — in  fact,  he  is  running  the 
whole  concern." 

Elma  looked  up  at  her  cousin  over  a  plate 
which  was  fixed  upon  her  easel.  She  said 
nothing  just  then,  but  dropped  her  two  hands 
upon  her  paint-stained  apron,  and  looked  out 
into  the  walled  garden. 

"  I  wonder  why  he  does  it  ?  "  she  said  practic- 
ally after  a  pause;  and  without  waiting  for  en- 
lightenment she  raised  her  palette,  and  began 
dabbing  thereon  with  a  brush  which  showed 
signs  of  having  been  imperfectly  washed  upon 
several  occasions.  The  paints  used  by  Elma 
were  of  a  peculiar  nature.  They  somewhat  re- 
sembled honey  in  so  much  as  they  were  fre- 
quently to  be  found  in  small  quantities,  in  most 
impossible  and  unexpected  quarters. 

"  I  don't  exactly  know,"  answered  Tom  reflec- 
tively. He  was  seated  on  a  low  chair  with  his 
leg  upon  the  end  of  the  sofa,  and  in  such  a  posi- 


QUICKSAND  125 

tion  that  he  could  watch  his  cousin  creating  most 
delicate  flowers  with  the  dirty  brush.  "1  don't 
exactly  know:  I  suppose  he  likes  it." 

"That  must  be  a  comforting  reflection,"  said 
she,  with  a  short  laugh. 

"It  is  a  most  comforting  reflection.  Because 
I  know  perfectly  well  that  if  1  wanted  to  stop 
him  I  could  not.  It  seems  to  be  Sam's  mission 
in  life  to  keep  other  folks  straight,  and  urge  them 
on  to  better  things  while  he  meditates  peacefully 
in  the  background." 

She  laughed  and  continued  painting,  but  there 
was  little  mirth  in  the  sound  of  her  laughter.  It 
had  the  effect  of  making  him  continue. 

"Sam,"  he  said,  "is  the  most  unselfish  man  I 
have  ever  met.  When  I  was  at  work  on  Miles 
Standish  he  cropped  up  on  every  page  as  the 
living  illustration  of  John  Alden;  but  I  didn't  put 
him  in.  His  style  and  his  manner  convey  noth- 
ing. You  cannot  tell  from  his  appearance  what 
sort  of  man  he  is." 

"I  don't  know  .  .  ."said  the  girl  slowly; 
"  I  think  you  can — a  little." 

"  Ah,  but  you  know  him." 

She  was  busy  with  a  very  delicate  piece  of 
work,  and  before  replying  she  touched  the  plate 
lightly  once  or  twice  with  the  end  of  her  brush, 
and  sat  back  a  little  to  contemplate  the  result. 

"Not  so  well  as  you  do,"  she  murmured  ab- 
sently and  yet  encouragingly,  as  if  the  topic  in- 
terested her  almost  as  much  as  her  painting. 


124  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

"  No,  of  course  not,"  was  the  reply  given 
with  a  certain  pride  of  possession.  "1  suppose 
no  one  knows  him  so  well  as  I  do.  If  ever  I 
were  tempted  to  write  a  book  (which  the  heav- 
ens forbid!  because  I  cannot  compete  against  the 
lady  novelist  of  the  day!)  I  should  follow  him 
about  with  a  notebook  and  a  pencil  to  take 
down  everything  he  said  and  did.  Then  I 
should  work  that  into  shape." 

"With  the  view  of  making  him  the  hero?" 
asked  Elma  indifferently. 

"Well  .  .  .  I  don't  exactly  know.  He  is 
hardly  the  style  of  hero  admired  by  the  reading 
public  of  the  day.  No;  he  would  be  in  the  book 
somewhere.  He  would  represent  a  character 
which  the  lady  novelist  has  wiped  out.  The 
character  of  a  man.  A  man  who  is  neither  a 
fop  nor  a  barber's  block,  a  humbug,  nor  a  black- 
guard." 

Elma  laughed,  because  Tom  had  a  terse,  cheerful 
way  of  saying  things  which  demanded  laughter. 

"  Poor  Mr.  Crozier,"  she  said;  "he  would  not 
recognize  himself,  I  am  sure." 

"Then  other  people  might.  Of  course  he 
would  not,  though.  I  do  not  suppose  any  of  us 
would.  I  firmly  believe  that  Sam  looks  upon 
himself  as  a  lazy,  selfish,  good-for-nothing 
lounger." 

"  He  has  a  certain  indolent  way  of  moving  and 
speaking,"  said  Elma  critically,  "  but  that  is  only 
habit.     His  mind  is  not  indolent.     It  is  a  habit 


QUICKSAND  125 

which  many  people  have.  Lily  Gibb  has  it  a 
little,  and  in  reality  she  gets  through  as  much 
work  in  a  day  as  I  do  in  a  week.  I  think  all 
sailors  get  it." 

"Save  me,"  ejaculated  Tom  fervently,  "from 
a  girl  who  gets  through  as  much  work  in  a  day 
as  another  does  in  a  week.  It  is  not  the  missioa 
of  girls  to  get  through  work." 

"1  wish,"  sighed  Elma,  putting  back  her  hair, 
"that  1  could  look  at  it  conscientiously  in  that 
light." 

"  It  is  the  mission  of  girls,"  said  Tom  solemnly, 
"to  paint  flowers  and  gather  them.  To  make 
their  fingers  in  a  mess  over  both  occupations, 
and  to  fill  up  their  spare  time  by  flirting  with 
their  cousins." 

Elma  laughed  and  blushed. 

Keeping  her  face  averted,  she  rose  suddenly, 
and  threw  her  brushes  down  pell-mell. 

"I  was  thinking,"  she  said  gravely,  "of  going 
for  a  long,  quick  walk." 

He  leant  forward  and  took  hold  of  the  ex- 
treme corner  of  her  apron. 

"No,  don't,"  he  pleaded.  "I  apologize.  Hear 
me  swear!    .    .     ." 

"Thanks.    I  would  rather  not  hear  you  swear." 

"Sit  down,  Elma,  and  go  on  painting,"  said 
Tom,  gravely.  "It  was  a  libel — a  base  libeL 
Of  course,  we  all  know     .     .     ." 

"Now,"  she  said,  holding  up  a  warning  paint- 
brush, "you  are  going  to  make  matters  worse.'* 


126  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

"I  doubt,"  he  said,  with  a  short  laugh, 
^'whether  they  could  be  worse.  What  were 
we  talking  about  ?  Sam.  Yes.  I  am  going  to 
talk  about  Sam.  He  is  quite  safe  as  a  topic,  and 
a  friend  in  all  weathers,  at  all  times,  and  in  every 
situation." 


CHAPTER  XII 

HOLDSWORTH   MOVES 

William  Holdsworth  was  not  a  thorough- 
paced villain.  He  did  not  possess  the  requisite 
backbone,  and  he  was  too  susceptible,  too  soft- 
hearted, and  too  easily  led. 

The  advent  of  his  whilom  officer  at  Goldheath 
was  annoying,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  but  as  he 
was  just  then  under  the  spell  of  Elma's  beauty 
and  fascination,  he  was  in  a  jealous  frame  of 
mind.  Things  had  hitherto  gone  very  well.  He 
saw  Elma  frequently,  she  was  always  gracious 
and  kind  to  him;  and,  as  is  the  way  with  young 
men,  he  was  fully  convinced  that  she  loved  him. 
He  was  determined  to  win  her  for  his  wife,  and, 
as  he  knew  that  sooner  or  later  Samuel  Crozier 
would  (to  use  his  own  expression)  run  foul  of 
him,  he  audaciously  sought  the  danger.  As 
previously  observed,  he  was  courageous  enough; 
but,  although  brave,  the  move  was  unwise.  He 
should  first  have  discovered  the  degree  of  inti- 
macy existing  between  Crozier  and  the  Valliants. 
He  should  have  gained  from  Elma  a  further  in- 
sight into  the  character  of  the  man  whom  he  had 
only  known  as  a  kind  officer  and  patient  bene- 
factor. All  these  and  similar  precautions  he  neg- 
127 


128  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

lected;  and  moreover  he  counted  too  much  upon 
the  possibility  of  not  being  recognized.  The  re- 
sult was  a  failure,  and  Holdsworth  found  himself 
under  the  influence  of  a  mind  stronger  than  his 
own,  a  will  superior  to  his.  Impertinence  quailed 
before  cool  justice.  Audacity  fell  back  in  face  of 
courage. 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  the  consumption 
of  humble  pie.  It  was  not  his  fault  that  he  met 
Crozier  again  on  the  following  day.  His  guest, 
Walter  Varden,  armed  with  a  genial  invitation 
from  the  squire,  expressed  a  desire  to  skate  on  the 
old  canal,  and  so  they  walked  over  to  Goldheath. 
The  unwelcome  news  that  a  girl  who  certainly 
did  owe  her  ruin  to  him,  although  he  had  almost 
forgotten  the  matter,  was  under  Crozier's  protec- 
tion and  existing  upon  his  charity,  came  at  first 
as  a  severe  blow;  but  Holdsworth  was  hardly  a 
scrupulous  man,  and  not  over  nice  in  his  suscep- 
tibilities. It  was,  he  argued,  a  mere  piece  of 
Quixotism  on  the  part  of  the  ex-naval  officer, 
and  if  the  girl  had  been  left  alone  she  would  have 
found  her  own  level.  It  was  therefore  merely  a 
matter  of  levels,  upon  which,  however,  folks 
are  prone  to  disagree. 

There  were,  he  reflected,  extenuating  circum- 
stances. The  girl,  whose  parents  kept  a  small 
tobacconist's  shop  in  Gibraltar,  had  come  more 
than  half-way  to  meet  his  advances.  She  had 
led  him  on,  and  the  consequences  were  at  her 
own   door.     These   ungallant    reflections   were, 


HOLDSWORTH  MOVES  129 

unfortunately,  more  or  less  true.  There  was 
that  modicum  of  veracity  in  them  which  can  so 
easily  be  enlarged  at  will.  But  he  did  not  care 
to  think  very  much  over  this  question.  It  was 
an  incident  in  his  life  which  jarred  inharmoni- 
ously  with  this  new  love  unwittingly  inspired  by 
Elma  Valliant,  and  it  suggested  an  uncomforta- 
ble question  as  to  whether  a  man  can  love  two 
women  at  the  same  time.  This  phenomenon  oc- 
curs at  times,  and  in  the  majority  of  cases  it  is 
the  old  love  that  wins,  unless  circumstances 
favour,  to  an  exceptional  degree,  the  new.  It 
may  be  that  conscience  has  some  influence  in 
this  matter,  but  in  William  Holdsworth's  case 
this  factor  was  wanting.  His  conscience  was 
dead.  He  preferred  not  to  inquire  too  deeply 
into  the  question,  and  in  the  meantime  he  waited 
patiently  until  Tom  Valliant  should  leave  Gold- 
heath.  After  the  accident  he  kept  away  from 
the  house,  contenting  himself  with  sending  a 
groom  to  inquire  after  the  broken  bone  every  day. 

One  afternoon,  however,  he  met  Elma  at  the 
house  of  a  mutual  friend.  He  had  gone  on  pur- 
pose to  meet  her,  and  yet  there  was  no  fixed 
plan  of  conduct  in  his  mind.  He  was  vaguely 
aware  of  his  own  vacillation,  and  rarely  made 
plans. 

"Mr.  Varden,"  said  Elma,  when  she  had 
shaken  hands,  "has  gone,  I  suppose?" 

In  his  quick  reckless  way  Holdsworth  saw  an 
opportunity. 


I30  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "he  has  gone  back  to 
St.  Antony's.  They  are  a  strange  lot  these  med- 
ical students.  Happy-go-lucky  fellows,  who  ap- 
pear to  spend  all  their  time  in  journalistic  haunts 
and  among  theatrical  people.  Varden  gave  me 
some  very  funny  details  of  their  life.  My  faith 
in  the  medical  profession  has  consequently  be- 
come rather  shaken.  1  dare  say,  however,  that 
it  is  not  the  same  in  all  hospitals." 

Elma  was  listening  in  a  perfunctory  way.  She 
nodded  and  smiled  to  a  girl  friend  at  the  other 
end  of  the  room  before  taking  any  notice  of  Holds- 
worth's  observations. 

"  1  am  afraid,"  she  said,  at  length,  in  a  tone  of 
marked  mdifference,  "that  St.  Antony's  is  a  trifle 
fast  in  its  style." 

Holdsworth  stroked  his  beard  shiftily.  Then 
he  changed  his  ground. 

"Not  all  of  them,"  he  said,  reassuringly. 
"Your  cousin,  for  instance,  seems  to  be  quite 
untainted.     He  is  a  thorough  gentleman    ..." 

"Thank  you,"  she  interposed,  with  a  light 
laugh. 

The  irony  slid  off  his  back  unheeded. 

"1  really  mean  it,"  he  said.  "From  what 
Varden  told  me  1  somehow  conceived  the  idea 
that  the  students  associate  with  a  set  of  men 
who  do  them  no  good." 

He  stirred  his  tea  meditatively,  and  smiled  in 
sympathy  with  a  general  laugh  that  came  from 
the  main  group  of  visitors  around  the  tea-table. 


HOLDSWORTH  MOVES  131 

Then  he  suddenly  turned  grave  again  and  con- 
tinued. 

"Actors,"  he  murmured,  suggestively,  "and 
theatrical  critics,  journalists,  and  second-rate 
musicians." 

Elma  sipped  her  tea.  There  was  very  little  in 
her  cup,  but  she  eked  it  out  so  as  to  make  it  last 
the  longer.  She  looked  straight  in  front  of  her, 
but  in  her  eyes  there  was  a  singular  expression 
wh'ch  was  almost  that  of  expectancy.  He 
glanced  toward  her  and  saw  it  not,  for  his  eyes 
were  blind  with  admiration,  and  his  spirit  was 
puffed  up  at  the  realization  of  his  own  astute- 
ness.    In  sublime  ignorance  he  blundered  on. 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  didactically,  "such  as- 
sociations cannot  be  good  for  young  fellows." 

"For  Mr.  Varden,"  she  asked,  innocently. 

"No  .  .  .  0,  no;  1  think  Varden  is  all 
right,  although  none  of  them  can  profit  by  the 
society  of  such  men  as — as  I  mentioned." 

He  glanced  at  her  again.  The  tone  in  which 
she  had  spoken  puzzled  him.  But  her  face  was 
sympathetically  grave,  as  if  thinking  of  a  possi- 
ble danger  being  run  by  her  cousin,  while  her 
eyes  were  a  triumph  of  inscrutability. 

"Still  I  suppose  these  men  are  clever,"  she 
suggested. 

"In  their  way,"  he  allowed,  graciously;  "but 
they  are  a  terriblv  idle  set.  It  is  a  matter  of 
genius,  you  understand — genius  without  applica- 
tion.    And  unless  a  genius  is  of  the  first  water  he 


132  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

is  usually  the  reverse  of  an  ornament  to  society. 
These  men  are  the  scum  of  the  intellectual  world." 

She  laughed  and  set  aside  her  cup.  Still  she 
showed  to  him  that  he  might  continue. 

"I  am  afraid,"  she  said,  "that  your  descrip- 
tion interests  me  in  them.  Do  you  speak  from 
personal  acquaintance  ?  " 

"Oh  no!"  he  said,  cleverly  avoiding  a  tone 
of  self-satisfaction;  "except  indeed  that — Mr. 
Crozier;  but  Walter  Varden  told  me  a  great 
deal  about  them  and  their  habits  of  life." 

"Yes,"  she  murmured,  slowly  drawing  on  her 
gloves.  There  was  a  stir  of  departure  in  the 
room,  in  her  eyes  there  was  a  faint  gleam 
which  almost  amounted  to  triumph. 

"Have  you  noticed,"  whispered  Mrs.  Gibb  to 
the  hostess  at  the  other  side  of  the  room,  "  how 
Elma  Valliant  has  lost  her  girlishness  lately.  Look 
at  her  now;  she  is  a  woman  at  this  moment." 

"And  a  very  sweet  woman,"  answered  the 
kindly  old  aristocrat.  "  A  very  sweet  and  charm- 
ing woman,  Mrs.  Gibb.  I  wish  I  had  a  son 
young  enough,  and  good  enough,  to  try  and  win 
her." 

"  There  seems  to  be  some  one  else,"  whispered 
Mrs.  Gibb,  glancing  at  Holdsworth. 

"Ah!"  replied  the  old  lady,  following  her 
companion's  glance.  "Who  is  that  sitting  be- 
side her?  Mr.  Holdsworth,  is  it  not?  Yes,  Mrs. 
Gibb,  there  may  be  some  one  else,  but  it  is  not 
William  Holdsworth." 


HOLDSWORTH  MOVES  133 

In  the  meantime  Elma  had  buttoned  her  gloves. 

"It  is  a  pity,"  Holdsworth  was  saying  to  her, 
"that  men  like  your  cousin  and  Varden,  who 
have  been  well  educated,  and  are  essentially 
gentlemen,  should  be  forced  by  circumstances  to 
choose  their  friends  among  a  class  so  distinctly 
beneath  them  in  the  social  scale." 

"1  have  never  heard,"  said  Elma  lightly,  as 
she  rose,  "  of  any  one  being  forced  to  choose  a 
friend.  Surely  there  can  be  no  choice  where 
force  is  brought  to  bear." 

"Well,  perhaps  force  is  hardly  the  word. 
They  are  led  to  do  so.  Of  course  people  say 
that  it  is  Bohemianism,'and  nothing  worse.  But 
men  should  not  forget  that  their  fathers  were 
gentlemen,  even  if  they  should  happen  to  possess 
a  knack  of  writing,  a  trick  of  acting,  or  the  gift 
of  a  voice." 

He  had  risen,  and  was  standing  before  her 
with  a  pleasant  smile  upon  his  brown  face.  His 
hands  were  hanging  half-clenched  at  his  side, 
and  he  moved  on  his  feet  restlessly.  She  looked 
straight  into  his  eyes  with  an  innocent  expression 
of  attention  to  his  words,  and  an  utter  disregard 
for  the  significance  of  his  admiring  gaze. 

"But,"  she  said,  "I  think  there  are  no  circum- 
stances whatever  to  justify  a  man  in  forgetting 
that." 

Then  they  crossed  the  room  together,  and 
Elma  offered  to  drive  Mrs.  Gibb  home  to  Gold- 
heath,  which  offer  was  accepted. 


134  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

Tom  was  at  the  door  to  meet  her  when  she 
reached  home.  His  hmp  was  scarcely  perceptible 
now.  On  the  following  day  he  purposed  return- 
ing to  town  in  order  to  see  his  publisher,  and 
come  to  some  definite  decision  about  the  future. 

"  Well,"  he  said.     "  How  did  it  go  off  ?  " 

"Oh,  very  well,  thanks,"  replied  Elma,  who 
was  a  little  thoughtful.  "  All  the  neighbourhood 
was  there." 

Tom  glanced  at  her  sharply  as  she  passed  into 
the  hall  before  him.  It  was  a  chilly  evening,  and 
she  went  straight  to  the  fire. 

"  Holdsworth  .?"  suggested  Tom,  interroga- 
tively. He  followed  her,  and  stood  before  the 
fire. 

"Yes.     He  was  there." 

She  leant  forward  and  held  her  gloved  hands 
nearer  to  the  flame. 

"My  fingers  are  simply  frozen,"  she  said. 
"  Rocket  pulled  most  viciously  all  the  way  home, 
and  I  could  not  let  him  go  because  of  Mrs.  Gibb's 
nerves." 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  Tom,  with  an  intonation 
which  might  have  indicated  relief.  "  She  drove 
home  with  you." 

"  Yes.     I  dropped  her  at  the  Vicarage." 

He  knelt  down  on  the  black  fur  mat  at  her 
side,  and  took  one  of  her  hands. 

"Poor  little  hands,"  he  said,  with  burlesque 
sympathy.  Then  he  drew  off  her  gloves  for  her, 
slowly  and  lingeringly. 


CHAPTER  Xin 

THE   doctor's   malady 

The  next  evening  was  one  of  some  importance 
in  the  musical  world,  and  Samuel  Crozier  was 
heavily  engaged.  He  dined  alone  at  the  Club, 
and  afterward  walked  across  to  Myra's  in  order 
to  learn  whether  Tom  Valliant  had  returned  to 
Town. 

He  passed  through  the  outer  room,  where 
Myra  herself  was  attending  to  the  wants  of  a 
few  diners,  whose  tastes  or  purses  did  not  reach 
beyond  the  succulent  products  of  the  grill.  Syra 
was  never  very  busy  between  the  hours  of  six 
and  eight,  and  Crozier  was  not  surprised  on 
drawing  back  the  heavy  curtain  of  the  Inner 
Bar  to  find  but  one  toper  there.  This  faithful 
admirer  was  not  Tom  Valliant.  It  was  Wilson 
Leonard,  the  young  house-surgeon. 

Crozier  had  heard  stories  connecting  the  name 
of  the  grave  young  doctor  with  the  presiding 
goddess  of  the  inner  Bar,  but  he  possessed  a 
strange  faculty  of  stowing  such  tales  neatly  away 
in  some  inner  pigeon-hole,  where  they  were  for 
ever  hidden  from  the  eye  of  the  curious.  It  was 
long  before,  when  Wilson  Leonard  was  a  grave 
3'oung  student. 

135 


1^6  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

He  entered  the  small  apartment  with  a  smile, 
and  a  hand  raised  to  his  hat.  There  was  no 
sign  of  surprise  at  finding  these  two  in  a  some- 
what confidential  attitude  at  the  far  end  of  the 
room,  both  leaning  upon  the  marble  counter, 
beyond  the  high  silver  coffee-urn, 

"Good-evening,  Syra,"  said  Crozier.  "How 
are  you,  Leonard  ?  I  came  in  in  the  hopes  of 
finding  a  Saint  Antony's  man  here.  Do  you 
know  if  Tom  Valliant  is  back  ?  " 

"No,  I  don't,"  answered  the  young  doctor. 
He  crossed  the  room,  and  leant  against  the  little 
iron  mantelpiece,  so  that  he  was  as  far  away 
from  Syra  as  the  dimensions  of  the  apartment 
would  allow. 

Then  Crozier  turned  to  Syra. 

"Have  you  heard  anything  about  him?"  he 
asked  quietly.  He  was  looking  at  her  rather 
more  searchingly  than  he  was  perhaps  aware  of, 
but  she  scarcely  betrayed  a  sign  of  discomfort. 
The  delicate  pink  of  her  cheek  altered  not  in  hue 
for  reasons  already  hinted  at;  her  mouth  was 
slightly  to  one  side,  her  lips  delicate  and  rudd}^ 
being  pressed  upward  with  a  strained  sense  of 
effort.  Only,  her  eyes  told  him  something. 
They  gleamed  defiance  into  his,  daring  him  to 
think  what  he  chose,  to  attempt  as  he  might  the 
perusal  of  her  motives.  But  the  very  glance  of 
defiance  was  a  confession.  It  betrayed  that 
Samuel  Crozier's  opinion  of  her  actions  was  a 
distinct  factor  in  her  conduct,  that  his  approval 


THE  DOCTOR'S  MALADY  137 

or  disapproval  carried  weight  and  influence. 
And  yet  he  was  nothing  to  her.  He  was  one  of 
many,  merely  a  passer-by,  who  dropped  in  at 
odd  moments  to  meet  his  friends,  and  satisfy  an 
imaginary  thirst  for  the  benefit  of  the  establish- 
ment. Nothing  perhaps  but  a  strong  earnest 
man,  who  had  a  peculiar  and  embarrassing  way 
of  treating  her  as  if  she  might  have  been  a  lady. 
She  knew  that  he  was  aware  that  Wilson  Leonard 
had  not  spoken  to  her  for  nearly  two  years. 
Those  close-set  inscrutable  eyes  could  not  hide 
that  knowledge  from  her,  and  over  the  decanters 
she  dared  the  singer  to  think  that  she  had  called 
the  young  doctor  to  come  to  her. 

"No,"  she  answered,  "he  has  not  been  in 
here,  Mr.  Crozier;  and  I  have  heard  nothing  of 
him." 

Crozier  struck  a  match  and  lighted  his  cigarette. 
He  showed  no  intention  of  going  just  then. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Leonard,  "that  you  havs 
dined." 

"Yes,"  answered  Crozier,  waving  his  match 
from  side  to  side  in  order  to  save  himself  the 
trouble  of  blowing  it  out. 

"  Then  have  a  cup  of  coffee." 

The  singer  accepted  readily.  He  was  well 
posted  in  certain  intricacies  of  the  hospitality  of 
the  bar,  which  is  a  question  of  getting  in  the  first 
word. 

Before  their  eyes,  while  they  both  watched 
him,  he  deliberately  poured  some  cold  water  into 


1^8  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

his  coffee  which  seemed  forbiddingly  hot. 
Leonard  contemplated  the  action  gravely.  Syra 
watched  with  indifferent  eyes,  it  would  be  a 
nice  and  far-reaching  question  to  solve  whether 
either  or  both  guessed  that  he  was  spoiling  his 
coffee  with  a  view  of  drinking  it  quickly  and 
leaving  them  to  themselves. 

"If  he  comes  in,"  he  said  to  Syra,  "  please  tell 
him  that  I  am  singing  to-night,  and  will  not  be 
home  before  eleven.  After  that  time  I  shall  be 
very  glad  if  he  will  come  in  and  have  a  pipe." 

"Yes,"  answered  she,  "  I  will  tell  him  so,  with 
pleasure." 

He  nodded  to  Leonard,  raised  his  hat  slightly 
to  Syra,  and  with  a  murmured  "good-night" 
passed  out  between  the  curtains.  It  was  none 
of  his  business,  he  reflected,  if  Wilson  Leonard 
'went  to  the  dogs. 

He  had  not  walked  many  yards  along  the 
"brilliantly-lighted  Strand  (wending  his  even  way 
assuredly  through  Virtue  and  Vice)  when  a  hand 
was  slipped  through  his  arm,  and  some  one 
walked  alongside,  falling  into  his  pace. 

"I  have  soon  caught  you  up,"  said  Wilson 
Leonard,  quietly. 

"Yes.  One  cannot  get  along  very  quickly 
through  this  crowd;  it  is  just  theatre  time,  I  sup- 
pose." 

Conversation  is  not  easily  conducted  in  the 
Strand  between  seven  and  eight  o'clock  in  the 
evening,  when  the  later  journals  are  in  full  cry, 


THE  DOCTOR'S  MALADY  139 

when  cabs  are  collidinf?  and  their  drivers  ex- 
changing civilities,  when  the  "pit"  doors  are 
being  cast  open  to  the  ••cwo-shilHno:"  public. 
The  two  men  walked  t0£:ether  in  silence  because 
they  could  only  converse  in  shouts,  and  that 
which  was  to  be  said  between  them  could  not 
be  cried  aloud. 

"  Let  us  get  out  of  this."  said  Crozier,  pres- 
ently, and  he  led  the  way  up  a  dark  and  narrow 
alley.  It  was  not  an  aristocratic  Quarter  through 
which  they  passed;  malodorous,  dark,  and  reek- 
ing with  hopelessness  and  vice,  it  was  at  least 
quiet;  for  neither  of  these  is  the  children  of  light 
and  noise. 

"I  have  not  been  in  that  place  for  nearly  two 
years,"  said  the  house-surgeon,  reflectively. 

"No?"  said  Crozier,  with  meek  interrogation. 
He  glanced  up  at  the  dark  walls  of  Drury  Lane 
theatre  which  they  happened  to  be  passing,  and 
smoked  vigourously  in  view  of  the  approaching 
Covent  Garden  bouquet  which  already  assailed 
his  sense  of  smell.  This  indolent  singer  was  the 
unfortunate  victim  of  confidences.  These  were 
poured  upon  him  from  all  sides  without  his  hav- 
ing in  the  least  encouraged  the  confiders.  It  was 
the  natural  result  of  his  quiet  steadfastness. 
People  with  troubles  upon  them  looked  on  him 
as  a  sort  of  well  wherein  to  sink  their  woes — a 
well  where  Truth  lay  hidden,  where  all  things 
dropped  lay  in  safe  and  kindly  darkness  until 
called  for. 


140  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

He  knew  that  Leonard  was  going  to  confide  in 
hjm.  There  was  no  help  for  it,  so  he  looked 
meekly  up  to  the  heavens  and  essayed  to  inhale 
as  little  bad  cabbage  and  putrid  potato  as  possible 
for  the  sake  of  his  throat. 

"I  suppose,"  continued  Leonard,  with  an  at- 
tempt at  cynicism,  that  I  was  bound  to  go  back 
some  time  or  other." 

"  U'm!  "  observed  the  singer,  sympathetically. 

When  a  man  is  determined  to  confide  in  one, 
it  is  next  to  an  impossibility  to  turn  aside  the 
stream. 

"  1  suppose,"  said  the  doctor,  "  that  you  would 
call  it  luck.  When  1  left  St.  Antony's  I  was  fully 
convinced  that  a  month  at  home  among  my  peo- 
ple, with  my  sisters  and  their  friends,  would  cure 
me  of  what  was  nothing  more  than  a  boyish 
fancy.  Confound  that  phrase!  Those  boyish 
fancies  leave  a  scar,  Crozier,  if  they  ever  heal  at 
all.  I  was  done  with  St.  Antony's,  done  with 
London,  and  the  Strand,  and  that  confounded 
Myra's.  1  thought,  at  least,  that  I  had  seen  the 
last  of  Myra's.  Then  came  the  offer  of  a  house- 
surgeonship.  Of  course  I  had  to  accept  it.  It 
was  clearly  the  only  thing  to  do.  They  all  called 
it  a  grand  opportunity.  The  governor  leant 
across  the  table  and  shook  hands  with  me. 
While  I  held  his  hand,  I  knew  that  this  grand 
opportunity  meant — Syra  ;  that  sooner  or  later  I 
would  go  back  to  that  place.  You  strong-minded 
fellows  don't  understand  it,  Crozier." 


THE  DOCTOR'S  MALADY  141 

The  singer  did  not  answer  at  once.  He  threw 
away  his  cigarette  half  smoked. 

"Don't  say  that,  Leonard,"  he  said  at  length. 
"I  think  every  one  understands  it  a  little.  It  is 
a  malady  which  is  beyond  us  all,  that  is  the  long 
and  short  of  it.  The  worst  of  it  is  that  we  can- 
not help  each  other  much,  because  each  fellow  is 
best  left  to  make  his  own  muddles.  The  mud- 
dle will  be  made,  you  may  be  sure  of  that — we 
all  do  it;  but  there  is  a  melancholy  satisfaction 
in  the  thought  that  you  went  your  own  way  and 
had  only  yourself  to  blame.  At  least,  I  have 
found  it  so." 

"It  seems  funny," said  Leonard,  with  a  sudden 
laugh  which  came  strangely  from  his  grave  lips, 
"that  a  fellow  who  has  been  brought  up  with 
retlned  and  gifted  ladies,  who  has  known  and 
associated  with  delicate  and  attractive  girls, 
should  make  an  ass  of  himself  by  falling  in  love 
with  a  barmaid — a  girl  who  paints  her  face  and 
touches  her  eyebrows  with  a  black  pencil,  who 
is  ready  to  accept  compromising  presents  from 
the  first  spendthrift  simpleton  who  comes  along 
and  asks  for  a  drink — whose  trade  it  is  to  flirt 
across  the  bar  with  every  one,  old  and  young, 
good  and  bad,  drunk  and  sober    .     .     ." 

"That  will  do,"  interrupted  Crozier  in  his  softest 
manner.  "  You  will  gain  nothing  by  abusing  her. 
You  forget,  Leonard,  that  I  know  Syra  as  well  as 
you  do.  What  you  say  is  true  enough  about  her 
class,  no  doubt,  but  it  is  not  quite  true  of  herl" 


142  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

They  had  crossed  Leicester  Square  and  were 
now  in  Piccadilly,  where  the  tide  of  humanity 
flowed  in  a  broader  and  brighter  stream.  From 
the  darker  haunts  of  poverty  and  vice  they  had 
emerged  suddenly  into  a  throng  on  pleasure  bent, 
hurrying  onward  on  foot,  in  cab  and  in  carriage 
to  theatres,  concert-halls,  and  soirees.  Most  of 
the  carriages  were  moving  slowly  in  a  long,  ser- 
pentine file  westward  toward  St.  James's  Hall. 

In  this  throng  conversation  became  more  diffi- 
cult. It  was  broken,  and  there  were  perforce 
long  pauses  in  which  both  had  time  to  think 
with  the  acquired  absorption  of  Londoners, 
which  remains  undisturbed  by  noise  and  bustle. 

"Of  course,"  said  Leonard,  bitterly,  "I  cannot 
marry  her.  I  am  not  quite  sure  that  I  want  to. 
It  would  simply  mean  ruin  to  myself  and  endless 
sorrow  to  my  relations.  She  would  be  miserable, 
and  so  would  I.  The  world  never  makes  allow- 
ances    .     .     ." 

At  this  moment  they  were  separated.  Crozier 
passed  through  a  narrow  place  and  waited  for 
his  companion  to  come  up. 

"No,"  he  said,  when  Leonard  had  retaken  his 
arm;  "the  world  never  makes  allowances.  You 
must  never  expect  that  of  it.  I  gave  up  doing  so 
long  ago.  Time,  Leonard,  time  is  the  only  thing 
that  can  do  it,  and  from  what  I  have  seen  of  life 
I  am  convinced  that  there  is  no  sorrow,  no  disap- 
pointment, no  bereavement  which  is  beyond  the 
power  of  time  to  cure." 


THE  DOCTOR'S  MALADY  143 

"  Oh,"  replied  the  other,  somewhat  impatiently 
— Crozier  was  aggravatingly  unemotional  at 
times — "oh,  1  dare  say.  No  doubt  it  will  be  all 
the  same  a  hundred  years  hence." 

"  Yes,"  assented  the  singer,  "probably;  let  us 
hope  so,  at  least.  1  should  not  be  surprised, 
however,  if  it  were  all  the  same  as  far  as  we  are 
concerned  thirty  years  hence  if  you  take  that 
line  of  argument." 

They  were  now  in  the  brilliantly-lighted  en- 
trance-hall of  the  building  where  the  great  ballad- 
concert  of  the  year  was  about  to  take  place. 
Brightly-dressed  ladies  were  passing  in,  throwing 
off,  with  due  regard  to  their  hair  and  flowers, 
dainty  wraps  and  shawls.  Among  them  were 
their  attendant  knights,  some  with  long  hair  and 
musical  aspirations,  others  with  closer-cropped 
heads  and  truer  music  in  their  souls.  As  stated, 
it  was  a  musical  event,  and  among  the  throng 
■passing  through  the  entrance-hall  many  recog- 
nized Samuel  Crozier,  and  turned  to  look  at  him 
again  with  a  whisper  to  their  friends. 

"In  the  meantime,"  Leonard  was  saying  (for 
they  were  apart  and  the  conversation  was   not 

laid  aside  yet) — "in  the  meantime  it  is  d d 

unpleasant  to  feel  that  I  cannot  get  past  the  door 
of  Myra's,  and  to  know  that  when  1  go  in  1  will 
find  that  girl  flirting  with  the  last  comer,  and 
laughing  at  his  double-meaning  jokes.  Such 
men  as  Marton,  the  old  play-writer,  who  always 
shakes   hands  with    her,   and    leers    across  the 


144  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

counter — a  man  with  a  face  like  a  walrus  and  a 
voice  like  that  of  an  omnibus-driver.  Young 
fops  like  Varden     .     .     ." 

"Look  out!"  said  Crozier,  interrupting  him; 
"  he  is  just  behind  you.  I  will  tell  you  what  you 
will  do  to-night,  Leonard;  you  will  come  inside. 
Here  is  my  card,  that  will  admit  you;  and  there 
are  sure  to  be  some  seats  returned  at  the  last 
minute,  they  will  give  you  one.  Don't  you  go 
back  to  Myra's  to-night.  Next  to  time  there  is 
no  cure  like  music!  " 

He  spoke  quickly  in  a  low  voice,  for  there 
were  ears  around  him  listening,  and  eyes  that 
sought  the  face  of  this  young  singer.  But  he  saw 
none  of  them.  He  was  engaged  just  then  in  one 
of  his  Quixotic  endeavours  to  throw  out  of  the 
path  of  life  a  few  of  those  jagged  stones  which 
lie  in  front  of  us  all — stones  which  we  all  try  to 
throw  aside  for  ever,  but  they  only  fall  on  the 
road  where  another  is  at  work,  and  he  is  sure  to 
pitch  them  back  again  with  others  that  obstruct 
his  way,  and  so  the  merry  farce  goes  on. 

Of  course  Wilson  Leonard  obeyed.  Most  men 
obeyed  Crozier  when  he  stood  before  them  in 
that  square,  persistent  attitude,  and  spoke  in  a 
low,  concentrated  tone  which  was  musical  enough 
by  reason  of  the  suppressed  force  that  was  in  it, 
and  because  Sam's  voice  was  always  musical. 
The  young  doctor  took  the  card  with  a  murmur 
of  thanks  and  was  about  to  move  onward  with 
the  gay  crowd  when  Walter  Varden  came  up. 


THE  DOCTOR'S  MALADY  145 

This  amiable  young  student  had  noticed  that 
the  public  attention  was  turned  in  some  degree 
toward  the  two  men,  and  he  promptly  took  ad- 
vantage of  the  situation.  Such  an  opportunity 
of  displaying  his  intimacy  with  a  public  char- 
acter (for  in  that  hall  Crozier  was  as  important 
a  person  as  the  Premier)  was  not  to  be  lost. 
Therefore  he  swaggered  up  to  them,  immacu- 
late as  to  shirt-front  and  buttonhole,  shiny  as 
to  sleek  head,  and  well-washed  as  to  vacant 
face. 

"Ah,  Crozier,"  he  said  in  a  cunningly-raised 
voice,  "how  are  you  .^  Hallo,  Doctor! — good- 
evening.  I  have  just  come  from  Myra's;  ex- 
pected to  see  some  of  you  chaps  there.  The  fair 
Syra  is  in  great  form  to-night;  but  she  would 
not  smoke  a  cigarette." 

The  two  men  looked  at  him  gravely.  Crozier 
examined  critically  the  single  diamond  stud  upon 
his  manly  breast.  There  was  a  want  of  hearti- 
ness about  his  reception,  but  the  public  saw  that 
he  was  on  intimate  terms.  They  could  not  fail 
to  do  that,  and  there  was  a  pretty  girl,  whom  he 
knew  slightly,  coming  upstairs. 

"  Is  Tom  back  yet?"  he  continued.  Then  he 
added  roguishly,  *•'  Ah,  Crozier,  the  lucky  dog 
has  been  in  clover  all  this  time — you  bet! — with 
that  little  cousin  of  his.  Nice  little  thing,  with 
a  figure  like  an  angel,  and  a  pair  of  eyes     .     .     ." 

He  finished  up  with  a  short  whistle,  such  as 
the  conductor  of  an  omnibus  employs  with  a 


146  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

view  of  attracting  the  attention  of  his  driver, 
given  softly. 

Crozier  moved  a  little  toward  the  door.  The 
overture  had  been  begun.  There  was  a  some- 
what unnatural  smile  hovering  about  his  lips,  but 
his  eyes  were  dull,  as  if  he  were  making  an  ef- 
fort to  control  some  emotion. 

"  Varden,"  he  said  gently,  "you  are  a  pleasing 
mixture  of  a  cad  and  a  fool;  at  present  the  fool 
predominates;  that  is  the  best  1  can  say  for  you." 

Then  he  joined  the  stream  of  pleasure-seekers 
with  Wilson  Leonard  at  his  side. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

BURNT   FINGERS 

Shortly  before  eleven  o'clock  Crozier  returned 
to  Lime  Court.  There  was  a  full  moon,  and  the 
old  houses  were  actually  poetic.  Poetry  seems 
out  of  place  in  the  heart  of  London,  in  sight  al- 
most of  the  lowest  haunts  of  mankind,  within 
sound  of  a  hundred  harsh  voices  calling  out  the 
attractions  of  their  evening  papers.  And  yet 
poetry  lingered  in  the  old  courts  and  passages  of 
the  Temple  that  night.  A  solitary  young  barris- 
ter was  walking  some  way  in  front  of  Crozier, 
his  light  footstep  ringing  firmly  on  the  pavement 
of  the  sleepy  courts  and  passages.  Presentlv  this 
man  let  himself  into  one  of  the  dark,  narrow- 
windowed  houses,  and  Crozier  was  alone. 

He  walked  slowly  with  his  ungloved  hands  in 
his  pockets,  his  cigar  held  firmly  between  his 
teeth.  As  usual  he  was  humming  a  tune  softly 
and  reflectively.  On  entering  the  precincts  of 
Lime  Court  he  perceived  that  there  was  some  one 
on  his  doorstep.  This  person  was  not  standing 
impatiently  with  his  back  against  the  door,  but 
seated  peacefully  upon  the  step  smoking  a  pipe. 
Immediately  the  plaintive  note  of  a  cat  in  distress 
broke  upon  the  singer's  ears,  very  cleverly  ren- 
147 


148  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

dered  and  dying  away  softly.  The  effect  was  so 
lifelike  amidst  the  silent  passages  where  there 
lingered  an  echo,  that  Tom  Valliant  repeated  the 
wail  before  rising  from  his  humble  seat. 

"Sam,"  he  said,  tragically  holding  out  his 
hand,  "how  is  it  with  you.?  The  situation  is 
poetic.  Young  man  discovered  courting  lumbago 
on  a  stone  step;  he  smokes  the  pipe  of  medita- 
tion; there  breaks  upon  the  silence  of  the  old 
mullioned  dwellings  a  soft  and  murmurous 
sound.  Is  it  a  ghost.?  No!  Is  it  the  note  of 
the  nightingale.?  No!  Is  it  the  cat  ?  Yes!  To 
him  comes  presently  a  troubadour.  His  cloak 
flies  in  the  wind,  his  shirt-front  gleams  in  the 
cold  moonlight.  Elis  cigar  is  tilted  rakishly  up- 
ward in  the  right-hand  corner  of  his  mouth;  his 
eye  roves.  The  gallery  cheers.  They  think  the 
troubadour  is  screwed.  Lend  me  your  latch-key 
and  I  will  open  the  door.     Thank  you." 

"When  did  you  come  up?"  Crozier  asked 
presently,  when  they  were  in  the  comfortable 
room.  He  was  turning  up  the  gas  and  he 
glanced  over  his  shoulder  toward  Tom. 

"This  afternoon,"  was  the  answer.  Tom 
seated  himself  cheerfully  and  threw  open  hi-s 
coat.  The  singer  noticed  that  there  was  a  small 
bunch  of  white  violets  in  his  buttonhole.  "  Yes, 
sir,  this  afternoon.  1  tore  myself,  away  from  the 
delights  of  a  country  life  and  from  .  .  . 
from  my  aunt." 

Crozier    knelt    down   on   the   hearth-rug  and 


BURNT  FINGERS  149 

poked  the  fire  leisurely.  The  far-seeing  Mrs. 
Sanders  had  left  a  small  copper-kettle  on  the 
hearth,  and  this  was  soon  brought  into  use  in  the 
very  smokiest  part  of  the  fire  where  five  men  out 
of  six  would  have  placed  it,  and  from  whence 
six  women  out  of  seven  would  have  caused  it  to 
be  removed  at  once. 

"Did  you  leave  them  all  well  ? "  he  asked  con- 
ventionally, without  turning  his  attention  away 
from  the  fire. 

Valliant  pressed  the  tobacco  into  his  pipe  and 
blew  the  ash  off  his  gloved  finger  before  answer- 
ing. 

"Yes,  very  well — thanks." 

Then  a  short  silence  came  over  them.  Crozier 
busied  himself  with  the  simple  hospitality  of  his 
bachelor  establishment.  A  tobacco-jar  was  placed 
on  the  table,  and  a  box  of  matches.  Subse- 
quently the  copper-kettle  came  into  use,  and  a 
sugar-basin  was  discovered  incidentally  in  the 
lower  part  of  the  sideboard.  This,  however,  was 
not  indicative  of  tea. 

When  they  were  both  seated  the  singer  lighted 
his  pipe. 

"  I  saw  Varden  to-night,"  he  said;  "  he  was  at 
St.  James's  Hall." 

Tom  turned  his  head  a  little  toward  his  com- 
panion, but  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  fire. 

"It  was  funny,"  he  said,  pensively,  "that  he 
should  have  turned  up  at  Goldheath.  When  I 
saw  him  I  cursed  loud  and  deep  in  my  sleeve. 


150  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE    < 

The  fellow  is  an  ass,  Samuel.  It  is  rather  aggra- 
vating that  the  only  St.  Antony's  man  that  Elma 
.  .  .  that  they  .  .  .  know  down  there 
should  be  Varden," 

Crozier  looked  sympathetic  and  waited  for  him 
to  talk  of  Holdsworth.  This  he  did  almost  at 
once,  for  he  had  been  thinking  of  him  since  the 
mention  of  his  friend's  name,  for  William  Holds- 
worth  was  something  more  than  a  cypher  in  life 
at  Goldheath. 

"That  fellow  Holdsworth,"  observed  Tom, 
"was  very  kind  in  sending  over  almost  every 
day  to  inquire  after  the  health  of  the  deponent." 

"  Sending  .^  "  repeated  Crozier  with  indifferent 
interest. 

"  Yes.     He  never  turned  up  himself." 

Crozier  moved  slightly,  drawing  in  his  legs  and 
leaning  forward  as  if  about  to  rise.  This  he  pres- 
ently did  and  went  to  his  bedroom,  where  he 
changed  his  dress-coat  for  a  very  shabby  gar- 
ment of  brown  velvet.  Then  he  returned  to  his 
seat  and  smoked  pensively.  The  result  of  his 
cogitations  was  soon  forthcoming.    • 

"There  are  certain  bibical  stories,"  he  said, 
"  which  are  of  a  strictly  contemporary  nature.  I 
mean  that  the  incidents  related  could  not  very 
well  happen  nowadays.  At  all  events  if  they  did 
take  place  the  result  would  probably  be  quite 
different." 

Tom  smiled  suddenly.  They  knew  each  other 
very  well,  these  two,  despite  the  utter  disparity 


BURNT  FINGERS  151 

of  age,  and  thought,  and  nature;  and  the  younger 
man  was  quick-witted  enough  to  follow  his 
friend's  meaning  even  while  he  was  speaking. 

"Wisdom,"  he  said  solemnly,  "is  falling 
heavily  from  thy  lips.  You  are  quite  right,  Sam. 
It  may  be  that  in  ancient  days  pigs  were  housed 
upon  a  different  principle,  but  it  seems  to  me  in 
these  times  that  there  is  a  faint  aroma  of  the  stye 
about  the  young  man  who  returneth  to  his 
father." 

That  was  all  they  said  about  Holdsworth. 
They  never  discussed  him  more  fully  than  that. 
Indeed,  it  happened  that  Tom  Valliant  remained 
in  ignorance  that  there  was  anything  else  to  say. 
Crozier  was  singularly  charitable  for  a  man  who 
had  knocked  about  in  the  world.  He  was  at 
heart  a  sailor,  and  sailors  are  undoubtedly  the 
most  charitable  men  on  earth  in  a  simple, 
straightforward,  honest  way.  It  may  also  have 
been  some  memory  of  dangers  passed  through 
together,  of  days  spent  on  sunny  seas  beneath  a 
cloudless  sky,  that  prompted  this  ex-sailor  to 
conceal  his  knowledge  of  William  Holdsworth's 
history,  for  when  a  man  claims  you  as  a  ship- 
mate he  invokes  a  very  strong  spirit  of  comrade- 
ship. Crozier  would  have  liked  to  warn  Elma 
also  against  this  man,  subtly  and  vaguely  as  he 
had  warned  Tom,  but  this  he  could  not  do. 
There  was  no  course  open  to  him  beyond  leaving 
it  to  her  maidenly  instinct  (which  is  a  sure  guide) 
to  detect  the  ring  of  false  metal.     He  did  not 


152  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

know  that  Holdsworth  had  warned  her  himself 
by' a  stupid  blunder. 

The  singer  now  changed  the  subject.  He 
spoke  of  the  concert,  and  incidentally  mentioned 
that  Wilson  Leonard  had  been  there.  This  led 
to  the  disclosure  of  a  fact  of  which  Crozier  had 
hitherto  been  ignorant— namely,  that  Dr.  Leon- 
ard's secret  was  almost  public  property  at  St.- 
Antony's. 

"  By  the  way,"  Tom  said,  "  1  was  told  to-day 
that  he  was  back  at  Myra's.  There  was  some- 
thing serious  between  Leonard  and  Syra,  I  be- 
lieve, when  he  was  a  student.  The  fellows  say 
that  they  were  engaged  at  one  time.  At  all 
events  1  know  that  he  was  always  there,  watch- 
ing her  every  glance  and  movement.  He  tried,  I 
believe,  to  get  her  away  from  the  place,  but  she 
would  not  go  governessing,  and  I  suppose  it 
would  hardly  have  done  for  the /(^//r^'^  of  Wilson 
Leonard,  Esq.,  to  have  served  behind  a  genteel 
counter." 

"1  am  very,  very  sorry  for  the  fellow,"  said 
Crozier.     "  He  is  making  a  muddle  of  his  life." 

"Well,"  answered  Tom,  with  a  sudden  laugh, 
"I  suppose,  in  the  eyes  of  the  disinterested  ob- 
server we  all  do  that.  It  certainly  seems  as  if  he 
were  burning  his  fingers,  but  that  again  is  a  com- 
mon practice.  We  do  it  in  different  ways,  that 
is  all.  Even  1,  old  man,  1,  the  practical,  the  light- 
hearted,  the  callous,  have  been  doing  so." 

More  confidences.     Crozier  rose  suddenly  from 


BURNT  FINGERS  155 

his  seat  and  poked  the  fire.  He  moved  about  the 
room  and  took  up  the  evening  paper  casually, 
looking  at  the  advertisement  columns  with  deep 
interest.  Leonard's  tale  was  bad  enough,  but 
Crozier  would  have  given  a  great  deal,  for  rea- 
sons of  his  own,  to  be  spared  this. 

"Yes,"  he  was  compelled,  however,  to  mur- 
mur. 

Tom  Valliant  sat  quite  motionless  in  the  deep 
armchair,  waiting  until  his  friend  should  be 
seated  or  still.  His  slim  white  hands  were 
clasped  round  his  knee.  His  head  was  slightly 
on  one  side,  and  he  was  very  pale — paler  per- 
haps than  usual.  His  lips,  which  were  thin  and 
sensitive,  were  parted  slightly,  and  his  heavy 
eyelids  seemed  to  weigh  wearily  over  his  eyes. 
It  was  a  beautiful  face,  of  a  delicate  and  super- 
refined  mould,  but  there  was  strength  in  it  too; 
the  patient  enduring  strength  of  a  woman.  Such 
a  face  as  that  is  always  a  study,  frequently  a  les- 
son. But  just  at  that  moment  it  was  not  pleasant 
to  look  upon.  It  was  the  face  of  a  miserable  and 
hopeless  man. 

The  singer  stood  on  the  hearth-rug  with  his 
elbow  resting  on  the  mantelpiece.  He  held  the 
evening  paper  in  his  hand  and  was  still  studying 
the  advertisements.  The  contrast  between  these 
two  men  reached  even  into  the  tiny  subtle  dif- 
■  ferences  of  carriage  and  attitude.  Valliant  sat 
with  his  fingers  interlocked  around  his  knee;  the 
attitude  was  a  favourite  one  with  him.     Crozier 


154  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

stood,  and  moreover  he  stood  squarely  and  inde- 
pendently. The  arm  resting  on  the  mantelpiece 
was  not  supporting  his  weight.  He  never  clasped 
his  hands  or  interlocked  his  fingers.  His  limbs 
(if  the  expression  be  comprehensible)  never  sup- 
ported each  other. 

There  was  a  stillness  in  the  room  for  a  few  sec- 
onds, then  Tom  Valliant  spoke. 

"When,"  he  said  reflectively,  "a  man  is  shut 
up  for  a  fortnight  in  a  country-house  with  a  girl 
■whom  he  has  been  trying  to  avoid  for  the  last 
three  years,  the  chances  are  rather  in  favour  of 
burnt  fingers." 

The  singer  was  reading  the  paper  no  longer. 
He  had  not  moved,  but  his  eyes  were  looking 
over  the  journal,  presumably  into  the  folds  of  the 
heavy  red  curtains. 

"You  talk,"  he  said  at  length,  in  measured 
tones,  "as  if  there  were  points  of  resemblance 
between  your  case  and  Leonard's.  1  do  not  see 
those  points." 

He  stopped  for  a  second  and  brushed  aside  his 
mustache  with  a  quick  movement  of  the  fingers. 

"Some  day  you  will,"  said  Tom,  in  that  mo- 
ment, but  in  such  a  low  voice  that  it  seemed 
probable  that  Crozier  did  not  hear. 

"Of  course,"  continued  Crozier,  tranquilly, 
"you  may  call  it  burning  your  fingers  if  you  like, 
but  it  is  only  a  pleasant  fable.  Leonard  cannot 
possibly  marry  Syra,  it  would  only  lead  to  endless 
misery,  and  a  few  months  of  unhappiness  is  bet- 


BURNT  FINGERS  155 

ter  than  a  lifetime:  you  could  marry  in  six  months 
if  you  chose  to  work.  Leonard  has  good  pros- 
pects, but  they  would  be  ruined  by  marriage  with 
a  barmaid,  whereas  your  work  would  be  assisted, 
if  anything,  by  your  marrying  and  settling  down. 
His  people  would  cast  him  off,  yours  would  be 
delighted  at  the  idea.     .     .     ." 

Suddenly  Tom  interrupted  him  with  a  merry 
laugh. 

"You  are  the  greatest  architect  I  know,"  he 
exclaimed.  "Your  castles  are  a  triumph  of  ar- 
tistic excellence — but,  my  friend,  the  building 
material  is  only  found  in  Spain.  It  has  just  struck 
twelve,  I  must  seek  my  humble  dwelling;  Craven 
Street  looks  well  at  midnight." 

He  rose  and  put  on  his  top-coat  with  a  great 
display  of  energy.  Crozier  smiled,  without  how- 
ever losing  the  thread  of  his  discourse. 

"Personally  speaking"  ...  he  hazarded 
deprecatingly,  but  he  got  no  further.  He  moved 
away  from  the  mantelpiece  toward  the  window 
and  drew  aside  the  heavy  curtain,  looking  search- 
ingly  into  the  night  for  some  seconds.  There 
was  no  visible  motive  in  this  action,  for  it  was  a, 
clear  moonlight  night,  and  there  was  no  question 
of  rain.  He  did  not  even  look  upward  to  the 
sky,  but  across  to  the  dark  houses  opposite.  He 
turned  and  allowed  the  curtain  to  fall  back  into 
its  place,  crossing  the  room  in  a  vague  peculiar 
way. 

"Personally  speaking,"  he  began  again,  as  if 


156  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

^vith  a  slight  effort,  "you  are  the  only  man  I 
3^now  who  is  good  enough — for  her." 

"Thank  you,  Sam,"  said  Valliant  simply.  He 
was  ready  to  go,  with  his  hat  set  jauntily  upon 
the  back  of  his  head.  He  moved  toward  the 
■door,  followed  by  his  companion. 

"  1  don't  see  how  you  can  imagine  that  there  is 
.an  obstacle,"  said  Crozier,  almost  argumentatively, 
•when  they  were  in  the  passage. 

Tom  turned  on  the  doorstep  and  shook  hands. 

"Some  day  you  will  see  it,"  he  said  ambigu- 
ously. Then  he  ran  lightly  down  the  steps,  and 
-walked  away  into  the  shadow  without  looking 
back. 


CHAPTER  XV 

A   CREATURE   OF   IMPULSE 

There  are  certain  definitions  of  human  charac- 
ter which  have  acquired  in  use  a  meaning  never 
conveyed  by  the  words  spoken.  To  be  called  a 
creature  of  impulse  is  to-day  a  compliment,  This^, 
perhaps,  arises  from  the  melancholy  fact  that  im- 
pulse as  a  human  incentive  is  dying  away  from 
amongst  us.  We  are  becoming  so  wise,  so 
prudent,  so  self-suppressing,  that  we  rarely  act, 
either  for  good  or  evil,  without  thinking  twice 
upon  the  matter. 

Now  Impulse,  like  Prudence,  is  a  double-faced 
hussy.  Once  she  goads  us  toward  good,  and  we, 
hesitating,  leave  that  good  undone.  The  next 
moment  she  will  urge  us  toward  evil,  and  again 
we  draw  back.  This  sounds  like  a  doctrine  of 
counterbalance,  but  it  is  not  such.  Impulsive 
goodness  is  superior  to  slow  beneficence.  Bis: 
dat  qui  cito  dat.  While  impulsive  evil  is  less 
loathsome  than  wrought-out,  thought-out  wick- 
edness. 

When  it  is  stated  that  William  Holdsworth  was 
a  creature  of  impulse,  it  is  therefore  conveyed  ad- 
ditionally that  he  possessed  redeeming  virtues. 

The  influence  exercised  over  him  by  the  mere 
157 


158  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

presence  of  Elma  Valliant  was  not  a  good  one. 
Her  beauty  made  him  jealous  that  other  men 
should  have  eyes  to  see  it  also.  Her  cheerful  in- 
dividuality did  not  soothe  his  spirit.  The  effect 
of  it  was  to  cause  wild  schemes  of  winning  her 
to  flit  through  his  brain — unscrupulous  schemes, 
most  of  them,  smacking  of  the  convenient  sophis- 
try of  the  sea-lawyer.  The  impulse  given  to  his 
soul  was  that  of  evil,  and  being  open  to  the  move- 
ments of  mental  impulse,  he  succumbed  readily 
enough. 

Once  he  sought  to  poison  her  mind — gratui- 
tously and  with  no  definite  aim — against  the  man 
to  whose  Quixotic  beneficence  he  owed  more  than 
he  cared  to  think  about.  Indirectly  he  endeav- 
oured to  lower  Tom  Valliant's  position  in  her  es- 
timation by  careless  hints  of  misdoings  in  London, 
iind — grossest  error  of  all — he  never  lost  an  op- 
portunity of  blowing  his  own  trumpet. 

Women  are  most  wonderfully  tolerant  of  van- 
ity, conceit,  and  bumptiousness  in  young  men, 
much  more  so  than  their  brothers;  but  their  love 
(at  least  if  they  be  true  women)  has  never  been 
Avon  by  virtues  of  which  the  happy  possessor  has 
been  the  first  to  make  mention.  In  other  words, 
a.  woman  never  loves  the  man  we  love.  Most  of 
us  manage  to  convey,  sooner  or  later,  to  her 
Avhose  love  we  seek  the  picture  of  a  wonderful 
individuality  which  we  modestly  take  to  be  our 
own.  But — if  we  win — it  is  not  that  individuality 
which  she  loves;   it  is  another  which  she  con- 


A  CREATURE  OF  IMPULSE  1^9 

structs  for  herself.  This  latter  creation  is  proba- 
bly as  far  from  the  reality  as  our  own,  but  if  she 
elects  to  blind  herself  into  the  belief  that  we  are 
the  incarnation  of  an  impossible  human  being,  it 
is  wiser  to  refrain  from  too  close  inquiry,  or  en- 
lightenment. 

Elma  never  loved  William  Holdsworth.  The 
thought  of  it  never  entered  her  head.  She  con- 
sidered him  very  pleasant  to  talk  to,  for  he  had  a; 
thousand  little  tales  of  adventure  to  tell,  such  as 
women  love  to  hear.  Of  these  he  was  with  sus- 
picious invariety  the  hero,  and  with  due  modesty- 
he  related  them.  He  had  pleasant,  hearty  ways 
with  him,  and  he  was  neat  and  clever  with  his 
hands  as  most  sailors  are.  Perhaps  she  flirted 
with  him,  just  a  little,  in  an  innocent  childish  way 
which  was  beyond  his  comprehension.  There 
was  that  glamour  of  an  evil  past  in  his  favour,, 
and  it  rendered  him  interesting  in  the  sight  of  this. 
inexperienced  and  imaginative  girl.  Truly  the 
ways  of  innocence  are  strange. 

William  Holdsworth  was  a  constant  surprise 
to  her.  Little  virtues  and  pleasant  accomplish- 
ments were  for  ever  turning  up  at  odd  moments. 
In  a  semi-interested  way  she  made  a  sort  of 
study  of  him. 

Elma  Valliant  was  far  from  expecting  an  im- 
mediate result  to  her  investigations,  but  this 
came  a  few  weeks  after  Tom  had  returned  to 
town.  As  usual,  luck  was  against  Holdsworth,. 
but  for  once  he  did  not  recognize  the  fact.    Luck 


i6o  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

in  this  case  consisted  of  a  dimly-lighted  con- 
servatory, where  a  soft  pink  glow  lay  on  the 
delicate  flowers;  where  the  atmosphere  was 
heavy  with  the  melancholy  odour  of  refined 
white  blossoms  such  as  stephanotis,  tuberose, 
and  lilies  of  the  valley.  There  was  music  also  in 
a  distant  room,  the  voice  of  a  violin  in  the  cun- 
ning hands  of  a  poetic  Italian,  who  made  the  in- 
strument wail  out  the  waltz-tune  softly.  Every- 
thing was  against  Holdsworth.  And  Elma  was 
at  his  side,  just  a  little  breathless,  the  flowers  on 
lier  dress  a  little  crushed,  and  the  lace  rising  and 
falling  rapidly.  The  moment  was  propitious  for 
the  study  of  human  nature,  and  Elma  saw  it  in  a 
new  phase. 

Holdsworth  was  glancing  at  her  sideways. 
They  were  quite  alone  in  the  conservatory.  The 
path  of  virtue  lay  before  him  bright  and  smooth 
just  then. 

"Elma,"  he  said  softly,  "do  you  remember 
years  ago  when  the  canal  was  full  there  were 
boats  upon  it  ?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  wondering,  "I  remem- 
ber." 

"  And  once  we  had  a  large  picnic  in  two  boats 
above  Scar  Lock." 

"Oh  yes,  1  remember,  and  you  had  a  fight 
with  a  little  boy." 

Holdsworth  wondered  uncomfortably  whether 
she  recollected  that  the  boy  was  considerably 
smaller  than  himself. 


A  CREATURE  OF  IMPULSE  i6i 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  was  going  to  remind  you 
of  that  fight.  Do  you  know  that  the  quarrel 
originated  with  you.  1  wanted  to  be  in  the  same 
boat  as  you.  It  is  long  ago,  Elma.  We  were 
quite  little  then,  but  the  boy  who  wanted  to  be 
near  you  is  of  the  same  mind  still." 

He  stopped  and  laid  his  hand  upon  her  wrist. 
Elma  experienced  a  sudden  sense  of  chilliness  all 
over.  There  was  an  obstruction  in  her  throat, 
and  she  prayed  inwardly  that  something  might 
happen  suddenly — as  it  does  in  books — to  pre- 
vent him  saying  more.  But  nothing  did  happen. 
The  music  went  on,  and  there  was  a  vibration  in 
the  floor  as  of  people  dancing.  In  a  dark  corner 
of  the  conservatory  the  monotonous  drip — drip — 
of  a  tap  imperfectly  turned  made  itself  heard. 
Holdsworth  had  taken  her  hand  within  his  fin- 
gers now. 

"I  know,"  he  said,  "that  I  have  done  little 
good  in  the  world.  I  have  had  a  hard  fight  to 
keep  straight,  for  luck  has  been  against  me  from 
the  very  first.  Every  one  has  given  a  helping 
push  to  the  man  who  seemed  destined  to  go 
down-hill.  The  one  thing  that  saved  me,  the 
one  thought  that  encouraged  me  was  the  re- 
membrance of  that  little  girl — the  little  queen  of 
my  boyhood.  Through  hardship  and  danger, 
through  hope  and  despair,  I  have  thought  of  that 
little  girl  and  wondered  whether  she  remembered 
the  boy  who  fought  for  a  place  at  her  side. 
When  at  last  I  saw  the  old  country  again,  the 


i62  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

golden  heath  and  the  placid  old  canal,  the  only 
question  1  asked  myself  was,  '  How  will  Elma 
greet  me? '  " 

He  was  very  earnest,  but  in  the  impulse  of  the 
moment  he  was  reeling  off  lies  most  impru- 
dently. Elma  also  was  of  an  impulsive  nature, 
but,  strange  to  say,  she  was  quite  calm  and 
self-possessed  now.  She  made  no  attempt  to 
release  her  hand  from  his  grasp.  His  very  ear- 
nestness should  have  carried  her  away;  the  thrill- 
ing tones  of  his  deep  voice  so  near  to  her  ear 
should  assuredly  have  touched  a  maiden's  heart. 
But  it  must  be  remembered  that  Elma  was  no 
longer  a  girl  in  her  teens.  No  one,  it  is  true,  had 
ever  spoken  to  her  in  such  tones  as  these  before; 
no  one  had  held  her  hand  in  such  a  grip  as  this, 
but  there  are  some  situations  in  life  in  which  in- 
stinct is  infallible  while  experience  is  useless.  A 
young,  heartwhole  girl  would  have  succumbed 
to  the  man's  power  of  wooing.  Elma  found 
herself  criticizing  the  sincerity  of  his  words.  To 
some  people  the  quick  knowledge  of  wise  action, 
which  is  vaguely  called  presence  of  mind,  only 
comes  when  the  danger  is  actually  upon  them. 
For  some  time  back  Elma  had,  in  her  more 
thoughtful  moments,  contemplated  the  bare  pos- 
sibility of  this  avowal,  but  Holdsworth's  man- 
ner had  deceived  her;  his  lightness  of  heart  had 
instilled  a  false  confidence.  And  now  that  the 
moment  had  come  she  was  equal  to  the  emer- 
gency.    She    was    actually   thinking    how    she 


A  CREATURE  OF  IMPULSE  163 

should  word  that  which  she  had  to  say  to 
him. 

Suddenly  she  rose;  but  he  remained  seated. 
She  stood  in  front  of  him  and  looked  down  at 
his  stalwart  form.  Strange  to  say  his  eyes  were 
averted  instead  of  seeking  hers.  Again  he  re- 
minded her  of  Samuel  Crozier.  No  two  men 
could  have  been  less  like  each  other  in  nature  or 
face,  but  there  was  some  subtle  point  of  resem- 
blance in  the  manner  in  which  they  held  them- 
selves— a  suggestion  of  past  discipline  through 
which  both  alike  had  passed. 

"  Willy,"  she  said,  gravely,  "when  I  heard  that 
you  had  come  back  I  was  very  glad  indeed,  be- 
cause I  thought  that  it  would  lead  to  the  renewal 
of  an  old  friendship.  If  you  say  any  more  you 
will  shatter  that  friendship  utterly,  and  nothing 
can  ever  patch  it  together  again." 

"I  suppose,"  he  said,  almost  humbly,  "that 
you  look  upon  me  as  a  hopeless  ne'er-do-well, 
an  idler  and  a  vagabond — a  sort  of  person  in  fact 
whom  no  lady  in  her  senses  would  ever  think  of 
loving." 

This  appeal  was  clever.  It  had  paid  well  upon 
former  occasions.  He  rose  and  stood  beside  her 
with  real  and  earnest  dejection  depicted  on  his 
handsome  face. 

"No,"  she  answered,  "I  suppose  nothing  of 
the  sort.  It  has  never  entered  my  head  to  pass 
a  mental  judgment  upon  you  or  your  doings.  If 
any  of  us  had  thought  what  you  suppose,  we 


i64  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

would  not  have  been  insincere  enough  to  assume 
a  friendhness  we  did  not  feel.  If,"  she  continued 
with  sudden  contrition,  "  if  1  am  to  blame  in  this 
.  .  .  if,  I  mean,  I  have  led  you  into  any  mis- 
take 1  am  very  sorry." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  a  deprecating 
way,  as  if  to  imply  that  his  own  feelings  were  of 
secondary  importance,  and  yet  to  insinuate  that 
he  had  received  no  light  blow.  The  movement 
betrayed  a  certain  knowledge  of  women  and 
their  ways,  for  nothing  appeals  so  strongly  to 
the  female  heart  as  its  own  sympathy  drawn 
"nolens  volens"  toward  a  strong  man  who 
rather  avoids  than  seeks  it.  By  that  slight  shrug 
William  Holdsworth  placed  himself  in  this  posi- 
tion with  regard  to  Elma.  He  was  thus  the 
victim  of  a  flirt — a  simple  straightforward  man 
deceived  and  ruined  in  happiness  by  a  pair  of  co- 
quettish eyes.  And  moreover  he  fully  believed 
it  himself,  for  it  is  a  part  of  some  characters, 
especially  those  that  possess  weakness  and 
strength  strangely  mixed,  to  deceive  themselves 
with  even  greater  success  than  they  deceive 
others. 

"  1  suppose,"  he  said  in  a  dreamy  way  without 
looking  at  her;  "1  suppose  there  is  some  one 
else." 

This  cool  supposition  put  forward  m  a  vaguely 
meditative  way,  not  untinged  with  a  hopeless 
despair,  was  calculated  to  leave  Elma  in  rather 
an  awkward  position.     It  was  distinctly  a  ques- 


A  CREATURE  OF  IMPULSE  163 

tion,  and  yet  she  could  not  take  it  as  such  and 
tell  him  tragically  that  he  had  no  business  to 
ask  it.  If  she  treated  it  with  silence  the  infer- 
ence would  be  that  the  supposition  was  correct. 

She  looked  down  at  her  companion. 

"I  do  not  see,"  she  said,  "what  that  has  to 
•do  with  the  question." 

He  was  very  much  in  love  with  her  in  his 
way,  and  he  could  not  quite  persuade  himself 
that  she  did  not  love  him.  This  latter  is  a  way 
we  have  in  our  masculine  modesty.  We  cannot 
fully  realize  that  the  young  person  whom  we 
honour  with  our  youthful  affections  can  do 
otherwise  than  love  us  most  consumedly.  It 
would  only  redound  to  her  infinite  credit  and 
good  taste.  This  happy  blindness,  however, 
lasts  no  length  of  time,  and  1  am  told  that  when 
a  man  does  win  the  love  of  a  woman — the  great, 
glorious,  unreserved  love — his  first  feeling  is  one 
of  fear.  He  is  thereafter  divided  between  a 
sense  of  his  own  utter  unworthiness  and  a  vague 
uncomfortable  feeling  that  he  has  got  more  than 
he  quite  bargained  for,  or  knows  what  to  do 
with. 

Holdsworth  was,  however,  untroubled  by  any 
such  misgivings  as  these.  He  was  still  in  the 
first  happy  period  of  conscious  irresistibility,  be- 
cause perhaps  he  had  never  won  the  love  of  any 
good  woman.  And  although  it  would  appear 
that  Elma  did  not  love  him  yet,  he  was  fully  and 
pleasantly  convinced  that  it  was  only  the  matter 


i66  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

of  a  little  more  time.  Had  he  looked  up  into  her 
face  just  then  he  would  assuredly  have  thought 
twice  over  this  conviction,  or  had  he  taken  the 
trouble  to  study  a  photograph  of  Elma  which 
was  gradually  fading  in  his  mother's  album  he 
might  never  have  said  the  words  that  came 
naturally  to  his  lips.  There  is  a  pleasant  and 
harmless  little  theory  (doubtless  leading — as  most 
theories  do — to  nothing)  that  photographs  are 
more  natural  than  they  are  usually  considered. 
If  a  man  shows  you  a  likeness  of  himself,  and 
the  face  delineated  is  that  of  a  weak  and  vapid 
person,  custom  and  politeness  bid  you  abuse  the 
sun  and  the  artist.  It  is  not  the  face  you  are  ac- 
customed to  see.  But  it  is  just  possible  that  you 
have  never  seen  the  real  face — only  a  mask;  be- 
cause masks  are  worn  as  successfully  to  hide 
weakness  as  to  conceal  strength.  The  photo- 
graph may  cause  you  to  think  about  your  friend ; 
may  awaken  suspicions  or  arouse  questions;  and 
if  it  does,  the  result  will  be  a  verdict  in  favour  of 
the  sun.  Thus,  fierce  people  who  smile  sweetly 
upon  the  world  will  unconsciously  assume  a 
ferocity  of  demeanour  before  the  camera;  and 
people  who  possess  a  little  square  chin,  like  Elma 
Valliant,  will  poke  it  forward,  and  impart  a  sense 
of  determination  to  their  features  which  the  soft- 
est of  eyes  cannot  counteract. 

But  Holdsworth  had  not  studied  the  faded 
photograph  (which,  by  the  way,  had  been  con- 
demned  as  a  bad   likeness),   and  was  in  total 


A  CREATURE  OF  IMPULSE  167 

ignorance  of  that  little  square  chin,  which  was 
at  this  moment  singularly  noticeable. 

"Well,"  he  muttered  doggedly,  "I  believe  you 
love  me,  and  1  simply  won't  take  no.  I  shall  go 
on  hoping,  Elma,  as  long  as  I  live." 

"I  will  never,"  said  Elma,  with  dangerous 
calmness,  ' '  be  bullied  or  frightened  into  caring  for 
you.  Surely  you  know  me  well  enough  to  recog- 
nize that." 

She  turned  half  way  from  him,  and  moved 
toward  the  door,  but  before  she  had  taken  two 
steps  his  arms  were  round  her,  crushing  her 
painfully.  With  sudden  passion  he  kissed  her 
twice  on  the  lips,  and  strange  to  say  she  made 
no  resistance.  Then  he  released  her  with  equal 
abruptness.  She  stood  for  a  moment,  while  he 
looked  down  at  her,  breathing  hard;  then  she 
raised  her  gloved  hand,  and  pressed  back  over 
her  ear  a  tiny  wisp  of  hair  that  had  escaped  and 
curled  forward  to  her  cheek.  When  at  last  she 
spoke,  there  was  in  the  tone  of  her  voice  a  with- 
ering contempt,  a  cool  fearless  despisal,  infinitely 
more  cruel  than  the  hottest  indignation. 

"You  do  not  know,"  she  said,  "what  love 
is." 

And  without  another  word  she  left  him,  walk- 
ing away  quietly  and  without  haste.  In  the 
drawing-room  she  found  her  father  standing 
with  his  hands  behind  him  watching  the  dancers 
with  his  genial  hearty  smile,  and  slipping  her 
hand  within  his  arm  she  stood  beside  him. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

INTRUDERS 

With  inexplicable  dilatoriness  Tom  Valliant 
wasted  his  time  at  Saint  Antony's.  Some  weeks 
had  elapsed  since  the  publication  of  the  book  so 
successfully  illustrated  by  him,  and  its  career  was 
assured.  A  second  edition  upon  superior  paper 
with  a  view  to  doing  better  justice  to  the  en- 
gravings was  already  in  hand,  and  offers  of 
work,  and  well-paid  work,  were  showered  upon 
him.  Artists  of  standing  began  to  ask  each  other 
whose  pupil  this  new  man  was,  where  he  had 
acquired  his  art,  and  from  whence  he  came,  but 
publishers  asked  no  questions,  they  wanted  to 
secure  his  pencil,  and  not  his  past.  These  clear- 
sighted readers  of  the  public  taste  knew  better 
than  to  cavil  at  a  man's  work  because  it  was  the 
emanation  of  genius,  untaught  callow  genius, 
instead  of  straightlaced  talent.  Some  of  them 
even  went  so  far  as  to  oppose  Samuel  Crozier's 
advice,  boldly  telling  Valliant  to  shun  all  art 
schools.  The  kingdom  is  plentifully  stocked 
with  art  schools.  No  small  town  is  complete 
without  an  establishment  of  this  description, 
duly  connected  with  the  head-centre  in  London, 
No  doubt  the  popular  taste,  the  artistic  feeling  of 
i68 


INTRUDERS  169 

the  multitude,  is  raised  by  tiieir  agency,  hut  da 
these  schools  produce  artists  ?  It  would  appear 
not.  Frenchmen  come  across — unwashed,  un- 
taught, merry  Frenchmen,  if  you  please — who 
have  never  looked  upon  a  plaster  cast  in  their 
lives  with  the  intention  of  drawing  it,  and  they 
illustrate  our  newspapers  as  we  cannot  illustrate 
them  ourselves  !  Italians — long-haired,  melan- 
choly Italians — come  and  hang  upon  the  walls  of 
our  exhibition-rooms  pictures  painted  with  a 
delicacy  and  truth  which  make  our  best  wielders 
of  the  brush  feel  humble.  Hard  smoking  Ger- 
mans sit  down  in  our  engraving  shops,  and  bend 
over  the  Frenchman's  drawing  with  a  result  infi- 
nitely creditable.  And  the  worst  of  it  is  that 
these  men  are  totally  without  artistic  training. 
Some  of  them,  indeed  many  of  them,  have  actu- 
ally never  been  taught  at  all.  The  age  is  essen- 
tially artificial,  but  are  we  not  making  a  mistake 
when  we  take  it  for  granted  that  art  can  be 
taught.?  From  the  statistics  of  art  schools  as 
regards  their  production  of  artists  it  would  seem 
that  education  kills  instead  of  fostering  this  deli- 
cate growth. 

Tom  Valliant  did  not  deign  to  explain  whether 
he  was  guided  in  this  matter  by  his  would-be 
publishers  or  his  natural  laziness;  but  he  treated 
all  suggestions  of  study  in  a  hopelessly  jocose 
spirit,  which  entirely  killed  any  argument  upon 
the  subject. 

"In  much  study,"  he  would  say  in  a  tone  of 


I70  THE  PHANTOjM  FUTURE 

which  the  solemnity  led  many  to  believe  that 
they  had  been  crushed  by  a  Biblical  quotation— 
"is  also  great  vanity!  1  am  not  vain,  but  as 
long  as  people  are  willing  to  buy  I  am  willing  to 
draw  things  as  1  see  them." 

He  undertook  to  illustrate  a  story  to  be  brought 
out  shortly  in  a  magazine;  began  slowly,  and 
suddenly  became  interested  in  it,  finishing  in  a 
few  weeks  in  such  a  manner  as  to  make  the 
publisher  come  forward  at  once  with  a  handsome 
i3id  for  the  monopoly  of  his  pencil,  which,  how- 
ever, he  refused. 

Withal  his  name  was  still  upon  the  books  of 
St.  Antony's  Hospital,  and  he  attended  lectures, 
and  put  in  an  appearance  in  the  dissecting-room 
in  a  desultory  way.  When  questioned  he 
laughed  carelessly,  and  talked  of  going  on  to  the 
€nd  of  the  term,  when  he  would  see  what  turned 
up.  In  his  attendance  at  Myra's,  however,  he 
was  very  regular,  much  more  so  than  Sam 
Crozier  liked;  but,  like  a  wise  man,  the  singer 
made  no  comment — indeed  he  did  not  appear  to 
notice  it. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  Syra  said  to  him  one  even- 
ing, in  her  neat,  clipping  way,  "that  you  are  an 
adept  at  letting  things  slide." 

Valliant  had  just  left  them,  accompanied  by 
some  rather  uproarious  friends,  bent  upon  visit- 
ing a  transpontine  music-hall  of  doubtful  reputa- 
tion, merely,  he  explained,  with  a  view  of  study- 
ing human  nature  in  a  new  phase. 


INTRUDERS  1711 

There  was  no  mistaking  her  meaning,  and 
Crozier  did  not  pretend  to.  He  smiled  slowly  in 
answer  to  the  thinly-hidden  bitterness  of  her 
tone,  and  looked  at  her  with  a  quizzical  tolerance. 

But  there  was  no  answering  smile  in  her  eyes^ 
and  the  sad  lips  were  firmly  closed. 

"I  can't  see  why  you  do  it,"  she  added,  im- 
patiently. 

He  was  smoking  a  cigar,  which  he  removed 
from  his  lips  before  leaning  his  elbow  resignedly 
upon  the  marble  counter. 

"Parables!"  he  said  with  mock  humility^ 
"parables  which  this  thick  head  cannot  eluci- 
date." 

"Why  did  you  let  him  go  to  that  place  to- 
night.?" she  asked,  as  she  turned  aside  and 
washed  some  glasses  noisily.  It  almost  seemed 
as  if  the  matter  had  a  greater  interest  for  her  than 
she  cared  to  show.  Crozier  did  not  always  un- 
derstand Syra;  she  interested  him  greatly,  and  he 
studied  her  at  times  with  a  kindly  and  tolerant 
keenness.  He  frequently  forgot  that  she  was 
only  a  barmaid — a  creature  whom  you,  the  gentle 
reader,  would  not  expect  to  possess  any  human 
interest  at  all,  any  feelings  worthy  of  our  virtu- 
ous consideration,  any  thought  above  vapid 
flirtation  across  the  counter.  Steeped  in  vice  she 
must  of  course  have  been  to  the  tips  of  her  pink 
fingers,  her  calling  vouched  for  that;  a  living; 
decoy,  her  trade  and  profession  was  to  entrap 
the  unwary,  to  lure  innocent  and  confiding  young 


172  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

men  to  their  destruction,  and  to  sell  her  smiles 
with  the  liqueur  she  handed  across  the  counter,  to 
the  highest  bidder  and  the  deepest  drinker. 

It  was  a  strange  friendship,  and  one,  we  all 
know,  infinitely  discreditable  to  any  one  pre- 
tending, as  Crozier  sometimes  did,  to  the  title  of 
gentleman. 

Through  the  veil  of  mockery  there  peeped  oc- 
casionally something  more  serious.  At  times 
there  was  a  second  meaning  behind  the  "stac- 
cato "  abruptness  of  the  girl  or  the  man's  tolerant 
cynicism,  and  these  tiny  shafts  of  truth  were 
never  lost.  Thus  they  had  learnt  to  know  each 
other  very  well,  better  perhaps  than  each  in  turn 
suspected. 

Samuel  Crozier  and  Tom  Valliant  were,  as 
Syra  had  once  said,  different  from  the  rest  of  the 
frequenters  of  the  little  bar  beyond  the  thick 
curtain.  This  difference  may  have  been  a  mere 
creation  of  the  girl's  fancy  (for  even  a  barmaid 
may  possess  imagination,  poor  soul!),  but  it  is 
certain  that  they  occupied  a  different  place  in  her 
mind.  The  one  with  his  grave  good-breeding, 
tiis  suggested  cynicism,  and  his  quiet  way  of 
telling  home-truths;  and  the  other  with  his  ever- 
lasting good  spirits,  his  assumed  chaff,  and  his 
smiling  mask  were  different  in  her  imagination 
in  so  much  as  they  were  credited  with  meaning. 
The  rest  had  no  meaning — they  were  merely 
Siappy,  thoughtless  boys,  or  improvident,  reck- 
fess  men.     Some  instinct  told  the  girl  that  there 


INTRUDERS  173 

was  a  purpose  in  these  two  friends — a  purpose 
and  another  life  of  which  "Myra's"  and  their 
present  day-to-day  existence  formed  no  part. 
They  belonged  to  a  diflferent  world  altogether. 
From  a  hundred  little  incidents,  a  hundred  pass- 
ing gestures,  momentary  silences  and  veiled 
glances  she  drew  with  the  unerring  insight  of 
her  sex  her  own  deductions.  Though  others 
had  not  noticed  it,  the  remembrance  was  patent 
to  her  that  never  since  they  had  first  set  eyes 
upon  each  other  had  Samuel  Crozier,  in  mere 
reckless  fun,  or  with  that  peculiar  disguised 
earnestness  of  his,  addressed  to  her  a  word  that 
might  have  been  turned  into  an  expression  of 
love  or  admiration.  On  the  other  hand,  Tom 
Valliant  was  always  doing  so,  but  in  such  a  man- 
ner, with  such  lightness  of  heart  and  such  merry 
smiles,  that  there  was  nothing  either  offensive 
or  sincere  to  be  understood  or  seized  upon. 

In  this  lay  a  greater  part  of  the  difference.. 
Crozier  might  inexplicably  treat  her  at  times  a& 
if  she  might  have  been  a  lady;  Valliant  might 
bring  her  flowers  and  cast  comically  languish- 
ing glances  over  the  decanters;  but  Syra  looked 
through  these  outward  manners  and  saw  that 
she  was  but  a  passing  incident  in  their  lives. 
She  saw,  however,  more  than  that.  Depraved,, 
lost,  fallen  as  she  might  have  been,  she  was  a 
woman  still,  and  a  woman  in  something  more 
than  the  baser  instincts  that  prompted  her  to 
bring  out  the  daintiness  of  her  cheeks  by  a  touch 


174  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

of  rouge,  to  make  the  most  of  a  perfect  figure, 
iind  to  wield  such  arms  as  she  possessed  without 
quarter  or  reserve.  She  looked  through  the  veil 
which,  although  worn  so  differently,  was  of  the 
same  texture,  and  what  her  lifeless,  hopeless  eyes 
saw  there  was  the  shadow  of  another  woman, 
and  illogically,  without  just  cause  or  reason,  she 
had  taken  the  thought  into  her  head  that  the 
shadow  on  both  lives  was  cast  by  one  form. 

By  way  of  reply  Crozier  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders. Presently,  however,  he  vouchsafed  an  ex- 
planation. 

"1  allowed  him  to  go,  Syra,  because  I  could 
not  stop  him." 

"Indeed.  Because  you  could  not  stop  him. 
Not  because  you  are  one  of  the  people  who 
habitually  let  things  slide;  who,  rather  than  find 
yourself  involved  in  an  argument,  shut  your 
ears  placidly  to  lies  and  let  misery  grow  up  all 
.around  you  ?" 

The  singer  rose  from  his  seat  and  took  up  his 
iirgumentative  post  before  the  fireplace  leisurely, 
•with  his  back  against  the  corner  of  the  iron 
mantelpiece. 

"No,"  he  answered,  "no.  As  you  have  done 
me  the  honour  of  asking  the  question,  I  reply  un- 
hesitatingly that  it  is  not  because  I  shut  my  ears 
and  let  things  slide.  Moreover,  misery  is  a  growth 
which  is  quite  natural,  and  I  am  informed  even 
necessary,  to  the  existing  state  of  things.  I  am 
not  interested  in  its  cultivation  at  all." 


INTRUDERS  175. 

He  allowed  her  some  time  to  reply,  but  she 
continued  drying  and  placing  upon  the  counter 
in  an  inverted  position  certain  small  tumblers, 
without  showing  any  wish  to  continue  the  con- 
versation in  this  channel. 

"1  don't  think,  Syra,"  he  murmured  gravely,, 
and  with  some  meaning,  "  that  my  eyes  are  more 
often  closed  than  those  of  other  people." 

She  raised  her  expressionless  orbs  to  meet  his 
and  closed  her  lips  with  a  defiant  twist  to  one 
side.  She  was  not  afraid  of  him,  and  showed  it 
boldly.  Before  speaking  she  shook  out  the 
damp  glass-towel  and  laid  it  on  the  coffee-urn  to 
dry,  all  with  a  curving  of  rounded  arms  and 
curling  of  pink  lingers  which  was  second  nature 
to  her  now. 

"The  atmosphere  you  breathe  and  the  life  you 
live,"  she  said,  with  mocking  demureness,  "are 
hardly  calculated  to  make  you  go  about  the 
world  with  your  eyes  shut." 

He  looked  up  to  the  ceiling  as  if  inhaling  the 
atmosphere  of  the  room. 

"No,"  he  said  innocently,  and  with  a  weight 
of  meaning. 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  I  speak  for  myself  as  well." 

"Which,"  he  suggested  with  a  twinkle  in  his 
deep-set  eyes,  "  places  me  in  good  company." 

"I  doubt  it,"  she  said  bitterly,  and  turned 
away. 

Presently  he  crossed  the  little  room  and  took: 
his    seat   on   a   high   mahogany   stool   near  the 


176  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

counter.  For  some  time  he  smoked  slowly, 
examining  the  quality  of  his  cigar  between  each 
puff. 

"  Syra,"  he  observed  reflectively  at  length, 
•"  Rome  was  not  built  in  a  day." 

The  girl  was  at  the  far  end  of  the  counter,  idly 
glancing  at  the  columns  of  a  newspaper. 

"So  I  have  been  told,"  she  replied,  without 
looking  up.  "  But,"  she  added  after  a  moment, 
^'  I  doubt  whether  it  would  ever  have  been  built 
at  all  if'   .     .     ." 

She  broke  off  with  a  short,  mirthless  laugh  and 
turned  the  newspaper  impatiently,  afterward 
placing  both  her  elbows  upon  the  counter  and 
bending  low  over  it. 

"I  was  going  to  be  rude,"  she  explained, 
abruptly. 

Crozier  was  looking  at  her  in  a  speculative 
manner,  his  deep-sunken  eyes  very  grave  and 
sympathetic. 

"Syra,"  he  said,  with  quiet  masterfulness, 
^'the  better  I  know  you,  the  less  I  understand 
you    .     .     ." 

"Oh,  for  goodness'  sake,"  she  interrupted, 
"do  not  let  us  discuss  me!  You  once  told  me 
that  it  was  bad  taste,  and  worse  than  unprofitable 
to  discuss  oneself  or  one's  feelings  with  anybody 
whomsoever." 

"So  I  did,"  he  allowed,  with  memory  as 
unerring  as  hers;  "1  had  no  intention  of  bring- 
ing   forward  the  topic    .     .     .     you   mention, 


INTRUDERS  177 

beyond  insinuating  in  the  most  respectful  man- 
ner possible  that  it  has  either  been  my  individual 
misfortune  to  do  or  say  something  which  has 
displeased  you,  or  some  event  has  occurred  to 
worry  you.  If  it  is  the  former  .  .  ."  He 
stopped,  and  taking  the  cigar  from  his  lips, 
threw  it  neatly  into  the  fire.  Then  he  slid  off 
his  stool  and  went  to  the  other  end  of  the  bar, 
where  he  stood  before  her  with  his  two  hands 
resting  on  the  counter.  "  If,"  he  repeated,  "it  is 
the  former,  without  knowing  any  details,  I  have 
no  hesitation  in  saying  that  the  slight,  or  the 
offence,  was  unintentional." 

She  moved  nervously  and  laid  her  hand  upon 
the  paper  without,  however,  looking  up.  His 
tone  had  quite  changed,  and  the  alteration 
afforded  her  a  glimpse  of  the  other  man — the 
man  of  drawing-rooms,  the  well-bred  gentleman 
whose  place  was  certainly  not  beside  that  marble 
counter.  It  was  a  rare  glimpse,  and  no  one  but 
Samuel  Crozier  afforded  it.  She  would  rather 
have  remained  in  the  darkness  of  her  station — 
rathei"  have  listened  to  his  easy  cynicism  than  the 
softer  tones  which  fell  so  easily  from  those  trained 
lips — rather  have  laughed  cheerlessly  than  have 
been  oppressed  by  a  nauseating  lump  in  her 
throat,  which  reminded  her  uncomfortably  of 
the  days  when  she  could  weep. 

"You  are  not  perhaps  aware,"  she  said,  while 
continuing  to  study  the  advertisement  columns 
closely,  "  that  people  are  talking  about  you." 


178  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

He  raised  his  eyebrows  indifferently. 

"What  a  calamity!"  he  murmured,  with  great 
serenity.  "May  I  inquire  what  'people'  are 
pleased  to  say  ?  " 

"It  is  the  common  talk  of  Saint  Antony's  that 
Mr.  Valliant  is  going  to     .     .     ." 

"Let  us  say  the  'dogs,'"  suggested  Crozier, 
seeing  her  hesitation. 

"  Yes,  the  dogs,  although  that  is  not  quite  the 
expression.  And  your  name  is  frequently  brought 
in." 

"As  showing  him  the  way  ?"  asked  Crozier. 

She  nodded  her  head,  but  made  no  further  re- 
ply. He  tugged  at  his  mustache  pensively — an 
action  very  rare  with  him. 

"That  is  the  sort  of  thing,"  he  was  reflecting, 
"  that  Varden  will  be  only  too  delighted  to  tell 
Holdsworth,  and  Holdsworth  will  be  only  too 
delighted  to  pass  it  on." 

Nevertheless  he  smiled  at  Syra's  grave  face. 

"  That  cannot  be  helped,"  he  said  reassuringly. 
"  All  will  be  put  right  in  time.  He  is  going  to 
leave  Saint  Antony's  at  the  end  of  the  term. 
Once  away  from  there  it  will  be  an  easy  matter 
to  drop  its  associations  and  form  more  profitable 
friendships." 

She  saw  the  semi-grave  meaning  of  the  last 
words,  but  chose  to  ignore  it. 

"He  does  not  care  a  bit  about  any  of  these 
men,"  she  said,  decisively.  "  He  associates  with 
them,  but  thev  cannot  be  called  his  friends." 


INTRUDERS  179 

**You  have  noticed  that  too,  have  you?"  said 
the  singer,  selecting  a  second  cigar.  "I  bow  to 
the  correctness  of  your  judgment.  He  will  prob- 
ably go  down  into  the  country  and  stay  with  his 
people.  There  he  will  come  under  a  new  influ- 
ence, and  a  fresh  incentive  to  work," 

The  words  were  spoken  with  inimitable  un- 
consciousness. His  careless  attitude  as  he  chose 
a  cigar  and  closed  the  case,  preparatory  to  re- 
turning it  to  his  pocket,  was  that  of  a  man  who 
■was  not  giving  his  whole  mind  to  the  subject  of 
which  he  was  talking.  The  choice  of  a  tobacco- 
ieaf  was  at  that  moment  of  paramount  impor- 
tance. But  Syra's  dull  eyes  were  not  taking  him 
in  as  a  whole.  She  disregarded  utterly  his  atti- 
tude; and  the  measured  indifference  of  his  voice 
carried  no  conviction  to  her  ears.  Her  entire  at- 
tention was  given  to  his  lips.  During  the  course 
of  their  disjointed,  half-veiled  friendship  she  had 
discovered  this  weak  point  in  his  worldly  armour, 
and  the  habit  had  grown  upon  her  of  watching 
the  singer's  thoughts,  not  through  his  impen- 
etrable eyes,  not  in  his  strong  manly  way  of  fac- 
ing joys  and  sorrows  squarely  and  perhaps  too 
unimpressionably  for  a  young  man;  but  through 
the  motion  or  the  stillness  of  his  trained  lips,  for 
it  must  not  be  forgotten  that  he  was  a  profes- 
sional singer. 

"1  am  sure,"  she  said,  "I  hope  it  will  be  the 
case." 

"'It  is  bound  to  be  so,"  he  answered,  reassur- 


i8o  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE  ♦ 

ingly,  but  very  gravely.  Then  his  manner  sud- 
denly changed,  and  at  the  same  moment  Syra 
moved  restlessly,  and  had  Crozier  looked  up  he 
would  have  seen  a  dull  patch  of  red  beneath  her 
eyes  which  was  not  there  a  moment  before. 
Both  had  heard  a  voice  in  the  outer  bar  wishing 
Myra  a  good-evening  in  unusually  quiet  and  sym- 
pathetic tones. 

"Come,  Syra,"  said  Crozier,  a  little  hurriedly, 
"this  will  never  do;  we  are  getting  serious. 
The  future,  and  especially  the  future  of  some  one 
else,  is  not  worth  getting  serious  over.  We  two 
should  know  that  by  this  time.  I  must  be  off. 
Good-night! " 

He  raised  his  hat-,  drew  back  the  curtain,  and 
confronted  Wilson  Leonard,  whose  arm  was 
actually  stretched  out  toward  the  heavy  folds. 

Crozier  nodded,  as  if  the  young  doctor  were  a 
regular  habitue,  and  betrayed  no  surprise  what- 
ever as  he  passed  on. 

"Hallo,  Leonard,"  he  said,  genially;  "how  are 
you!  I'm  just  off  to  the  club  to  see  the  Paris 
papers.     Good-night,  old  fellow  I" 


CHAPTER  XVII 

syra's  secret 

There  is  a  sad  want  of  economy  in  everyday 
life.  It  is  like  a  very  large  book  with  a  small 
plot  and  few  incidents.  We  take  a  long  time  to 
do  very  little;  in  fact,  to  use  a  technical  expres- 
sion, there  is  too  much  padding.  The  real  inci- 
dents, the  real  crises,  and  the  actual  successes 
and  failures  are  of  short  duration.  They  usually 
come  and  go  in  a  few  minutes  with  their  attend- 
ant emotions.  The  pleasure  of  a  great  success  is 
after  all  a  passing  joy.  A  man  succeeds,  and  lo! 
in  a  few  weeks  he  is  accustomed  to  success — it 
thrills  him  no  longer — its  joy  is  dead.  He  longed 
for  success:  it  has  come,  and  yet  he  is  the  same 
man.  He  gets  up  in  the  morning,  eats,  works, 
and  sleeps  again,  as  he  did  before.  Eating  is  no 
greater  pleasure,  sleep  is  no  more  restful,  work 
is  no  less  monotonous. 

Hope  and  regret  are  alone  long  lived.  These 
two  are  the  padding  of  our  lives,  the  fine  writing 
in  the  novel  which  goes  on  and  on,  from  page 
to  page,  with  a  few  incidents  thrown  in  here 
and  there  to  break  the  paragraphs.  Hope  is  all 
sweetness,  and  regret  is  bitter  sweetness.  In  ex- 
cess they  clog  the  taste,  just  as  too  much  fine 
writing  wearies  the  reader. 

i8i 


i82  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

To  suit  the  hurried  days  in  which  we  live  the 
novelette  has  been  invented.  Why  can  we  not 
live  lifelettes!  Reduce  volume  one  by  beginning 
at  the  end  of  it:  id  est,  at  the  end  of  childhood. 
Scurry  through  volume  two  and  reach  the  begin- 
ning of  number  three.  All  the  incidents  could 
be  detailed  in  a  few  pages.  I  could  reduce  thirty 
years  to  five,  and  get  into  that  space  all  the  joys 
and  sorrows,  the  hopes  and  aspirations,  the  suc- 
cesses and  the  failures,  the  laughter  and  the  tears. 
No  neglect  of  necessary  detail  would  result,  no» 
scamped  work.  In  that  time  the  joys  would  be 
thoroughly  enjoyed;  the  sorrows  treasured  with  a 
certain  melancholy  pride;  the  hopes  disappointed; 
the  aspirations  crumbled  to  the  ground;  the  suc- 
cesses realized,  and  the  failures  recognized.  And 
all  in  a  business-like,  shipshape  manner  worthy 
of  a  most  practical  and  estimable  generation.     • 

Poor,  dear,  slow  old  Nature  is  getting  sadly  be- 
hindhand. Her  system  of  managing  human 
affairs  is  effete.  She  must  either  work  in  more 
incident  or  reduce  her  detail.  We  have  too  much 
getting  up  and  washing  and  dicing,  and  eating 
and  drinking,  and  going  to  bed  again.  When  our 
family  bibles  credited  us  with  seventeen  years  we 
were  twenty-five,  and  instead  of  making  up  her 
lost  time  Nature  gets  more  and  more  behindhand 
as  life  goes  on. 

Most  assuredly  Syra  thought  such  thoughts  as 
these  when  Wilson  Leonard  left  the  little  room 
which  v/as  called  hers,  onlv  half-an-hour  after 


SYRA'S  SHCRHT  183 

he  had  drawn  aside  the  curtain  to  find  himself 
face  to  face  with  Samuel  Crozier.  Undoubtedly 
some  retlex  of  them  passed  through  the  young 
doctor's  anxious  brain  as  he  hustled  his  way 
through  the  crowded  humanity  of  midnight 
Strand.  Half-an-hour — thirty  minutes  out  of  all 
the  millions — but  thirty  containing  more  than 
three  thousand.  That  half-hour  left  them  both 
older;  both  wiser,  the  preacher  will  say;  both 
better    .     .     .     ivho  shall  say  .^ 

When  Crozier  left  the  inner  bar  Syra  turned  a 
pale  set  face  toward  the  newcomer.  Why  had 
Wilson  Leonard  taken  to  frequenting  Myra's 
again  ? 

And  so  they  looked  at  each  other  for  a  brief 
moment  over  the  decanters,  across  the  daintily 
arranged  counter.  Dull  lifeless  eyes  looking  into 
eyes  that  were  too  sympathetic,  too  kindly  for 
their  possessor's  happiness  in  a  world  where  hu- 
man sympathy  is  a  hindrance. 

Outside,  in  Myra's  bar,  there  was  the  everlast- 
ing sound  of  frizzling  chops,  spluttering  kidneys, 
and  seething  steaks.  One  or  two  male  voices 
were  raised  in  altercation,  and  there  was  a  laugh 
— a  single  throaty  laugh — occurring  with  weary 
regularity  at  short  intervals.  Crozier,  had  he 
heard  it,  would  have  said  that  the  laugher  was 
supping  at  somebody  else's  expense.  Years 
afterward  Leonard  heard  that  laugh  again  in  a 
room  full  of  gaily-dressed  people,  and  it  brought 
back  to  his  nostrils  the  sickening  odours  of  cook- 


i84  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

ing  meat,  damp  sawdust,  tobacco-smoke,  and 
beer.  Before  his  eyes  it  raised  a  picture  of  gaudy 
bottles  rising  in  tiers  to  the  ceiling,  and  before 
them,  amidst  them,  the  most  beautiful  face  he 
had  ever  known.  It  recalled  the  dull  eyes,  where 
life  and  a  great  hopeless  misery  were  struggling 
for  mastery  over  an  indomitable  will;  and  into  his 
heart  it  poured  a  sudden  flood  of  wretchedness 
which  overwhelmed  all  other  feeling,  quenched 
all  resistance,  and  made  him  for  a  moment  no 
better  than  a  dead  man. 

Leonard  raised  his  hat  in  silent  salutation. 
His  lips  indeed  did  move,  but  no  words  came 
from  them.  The  girl  bowed  her  head  slightly 
and  busied  herself  with  some  glasses.  The  si- 
lence was  becoming  irksome. 

"  What  can  1  give  you.?  "  she  asked,  in  a  busi- 
ness-like tone. 

He  looked  round  almost  stupidly,  and  stooped 
to  examine  a  brilliant  label  on  a  whiskey-bottle, 
in  a  singularly  interested  manner. 

"Oh     .     .     .     I'll  have  some  coffee,  please." 

She  handed  the  cup  in  a  careless,  nonchalant 
way,  which  was  not  calculated  to  forward  Myra's 
commercial  interests. 

"You  have  grown  very  abstemious,"  she  said 
lightly. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  stirring  his  harmless 
beverage  leisurely.  "I  have  to  be  more  careful 
nowadays.  I  need  all  my  steadiness  and  all  my 
nerve.     They  are  my  stock-in-trade." 


SYRA'S  SECRET  185 

Her  eyes,  resting  on  him,  were  almost  en- 
dowed witii  life,  but  she  soon  turned  away  and 
went  to  the  end  of  the  counter,  where  she  sat 
down  wearily. 

"  1  once  told  you,"  he  began  in  a  critical  way, 
"years  ago,  when  I  was  a  student,  that  a  couple 
of  years  of  this  work  would  kill  you." 

"  It  is  three  years  since  you  told  me  that." 

"  Yes ? "  he  murmured  interrogatively.  "Three 
years  ago,  is  it  ?  " 

"And  here  1  am  still.  1  am  not  to  be  killed  by 
work  it  seems." 

She  spoke  in  a  hard  discouraging  voice,  as  if 
the  subject  were  utterly  distasteful;  as  if  no  pos- 
sible end  could  be  served  by  discussing  it. 

"  As  I  came  along  just  now,"  said  Dr.  Leonard, 
looking  into  her  eyes  for  the  first  time  since  he 
had  come  in,  "1  was  wondering  why  you  stayed 
here." 

"Ten  shillings  a  week,"  she  answered 
promptly,  "and  all  found!" 

It  was  a  splendid  farce,  but  her  flippancy  was 
not  successful.  She  could  not  even  laugh  at  it 
herself.  It  fell  very  flat,  and  there  was  utter 
misery  in  the  air. 

"  I  asked  you  once  before,"  continued  Leonard, 
ignoring  her  explanation,  "if  you  would  let  me 
find  you  some  other  work — something  easier  and 
quieter;  and  something  less  .  .  ."  he  hesi- 
tated for  a  word. 

"Degrading    .     .     .?"  she  suggested.    , 


i86  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

"Yes,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  gently — "de- 
grading." 

Beneath  his  gaze  the  girl  turned  away.  He 
came  nearer  to  her,  so  that  only  the  breadth  of 
the  marble  counter  was  between  them.  Stand- 
ing there  with  his  arms  resting  on  the  clear  space 
before  him  where  no  decanters  were,  he  looked 
down  at  her  where  she  sat  on  an  inverted, 
mineral-water  case.  Her  face  was  averted,  her 
hands  were  clasped  together.  She  was  almost 
crouching  at  his  feet — crouching  gracefully  in 
her  close-fitting  black  dress,  with  the  beautiful 
golden  head  bent  and  turned  from  his  sorrowful 
eyes. 

It  seemed  that  at  last  he  had  conquered — that 
at  last  his  stubborn  manliness  had  triumphed  over 
her  power  of  will. 

"You  have  had  many  opportunities  that  I 
know  of  for  bettering  your  position.  Many 
better  .  .  .  places  have  been  offered  you. 
You  know  you  are  far  too  good  and  .  .  . 
for  this  sort  of  thing,  and  yet  you  stay.  It  can- 
not be  from  love  of  the  work — that  is  impossible. 
You  do  not  pretend  to  be  devotedly  attached  to 
Myra.     Why  do  you  stay  ?  " 

She  moved  restlessly,  drawing  in  one  neatly- 
shod  foot  and  dropping  her  arms  to  her  side. 

"Ten  shillings  a  week,"  she  repeated,  "and 
all  found," 

"Syra,"  he  said  gravely — the  habit  of  calling 
her    Syra    was    still    with    him — "Syra.      For 


SYRA'S  SECRET  187 

heaven's  sake  don't  copy  Tom  Valliant.  Don't 
throw  away  your  life  as  if  you  had  many  to 
spare.  It  is  the  only  one  you  have.  Is  this  ?  ' — 
he  indicated  the  bar,  the  bottles,  the  smoke-be- 
grimed room — "is  this  your  idea  of  life.  Do, 
for  goodness'  sake,  think  what  you  are  doing." 

Suddenly  she  rose  and  glanced  at  the  clock,  in 
obvious  hopes  that  the  theatre-goers  would  soon 
be  coming  in. 

"  Oh!  "  she  answered,  with  an  impatient  sigh, 
"I  am  thinking  what  I  am  doing.  I  have  thought 
about  it  so  much  that  1  am  sick  and  weary  of  the 
whole  business." 

She  turned  her  back  upon  him  and  dusted  the 
bottles  with  a  worn  feather  duster. 

"Then  leave  this  place." 

Then  she  threw  away  the  duster  and  turned 
upon  him  sharply,  resting  her  two  hands  upon 
the  counter. 

"  Why.?"  she  asked,  with  flushed  cheeks  and 
eyes  that  glowed  for  once.  "  Why  do  you  take 
it  upon  yourself  to  dictate  to  me  ?" 

"Because  I  love  you,"  he  answered  simply. 
"You  know  that.  I  told  you  three  years  ago, 
and  it  is  the  same  now  as  if  I  had  told  you  every 
day  since.  Every  man  has  a  right  to  try  and  do 
something  for  the  woman  he  loves.  Is  that  not 
so,  Syra?" 

Still  she  resisted,  and  in  reply  to  his  question 
merely  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

Then  he  took  her  hand,  pink  from  constant 


188  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE  " 

contact  with  warm  water  and  damp  towels, 
moist  from  beer-drippings. 

"Is  tiiat  not  so,  Syra ?  "  he  repeated. 

She  made  no  attempt  to  draw  her  hand  away, 
but  looked  at  it  dreamily,  as  if  comparing  its 
pinkness  with  his  white  slim  fingers.  No  answer 
to  his  question  came,  and  presently  he  con- 
tinued— 

"If  you  will  not  tell  me  why  you  deliberately 
throw  away  every  chance,  why  you  stay  here 
against  the  advice  of  everybody  who  takes  any 
interest  in  you — Crozier,  Myra,  myself — every  one 
• — I  must  simply  draw  my  own  conclusions. 
You  stay,  Syra,  to  be  near  some  one!    Who  is 

it.;^" 

She  raised  her  head  and  looked  at  him.  Her 
lips  were  pressed  upward  and  sideways  with 
that  pathetic  twist;  there  was  defiance  in  her 
eyes. 

"You!"  she  answered,  coolly. 

For  a  moment  he  ceased  to  breathe,  and  when 
at  last  he  spoke  there  was  a  break  in  his  voice 
like  a  sob. 

"Oh!  '■  he  exclaimed,  in  a  low,  unsteady  tone, 
"  v/hat  a  muddle  we  have  made  of  it!  " 

"No,"  she  answered,  "we  have  not.  You 
have  made  a  mistake — a  terrible  mistake — in  com- 
ing back,  that  is  all." 

He  slowly  withdrew  his  fingers  from  round 
hers,  and  moved  away  a  few  steps,  where  he  sat 
wearily  down  upon  one  of  the  high  mahogany 


SYRA'S  SECRET  189 

stools  near  the  counter.  He  leant  his  elbow  on 
the  marble,  and  pushing  his  hat  on  to  the  back 
of  his  head,  sat  holding  his  forehead  in  silence 
for  some  moments. 

"Why.^"  he  asked.  "Why  have  I  made  a 
mistake  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  for  some  moments  without 
replying.  Had  he  raised  his  eyes  then  he  would 
have  seen  the  quivering  tears  in  hers.  He  would 
have  seen  the  beautiful  face  transformed  to  some- 
thing still  more  beautiful — purer,  holier,  loftier; 
lightened  by  a  glow,  the  pure  and  glorious  illu- 
mination of  a  great  unselfish  love.  A  dog  can 
love  like  this,  can  we — dare  you — deny  it  to  a 
barmaid  ?  How  pitifully  small  is  the  basis  upon 
which  turns  the  axis  of  a  human  existence!  Had 
Leonard  raised  his  eyes  he  could  not  have  with- 
stood the  magnetism  of  her  glance;  he  would 
have  asserted  his  manhood,  the  rights  of  his  de- 
votion. His  greater  passion  would  have  con- 
quered her  noble  resistance,  and  a  splendid  sur- 
geon would  have  been  lost  to  suffering  humanity. 
As  it  was  he  only  heard  her  words,  spoken  in  a 
coldly  modulated  monotone. 

"Surely  you  must  know,'"  she  said,  "that  I 
could  never  marry  you.  1  have  seen  too  much  of 
this  .  .  .  degrading  .  .  .  existence  to  be 
able  ever  to  settle  down  into  humdrum  married 
life.  I  am  too  fond  of  admiration,  too  much  ac- 
customed to  it,  to  live  without  it  until — well, 
until  there  is  nothing  left  to  admire.     I  should  be 


190  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

miserable  in  a  year,  and  so  would  you.  It  is 
only  in  books  that  such  things  come  right.  Mis- 
ery and  nothing  but  misery  could  ever  come  of 
it,  and  you  know  it." 

He  shook  his  head  without  looking  up,  but  it 
w  IS  a  wavering  denial.  He  knew  it,  but  what 
could  he  do  ? 

"Could  things  be  worse.?"  he  asked  hope- 
lessly. 

"Yes,  1  think  so,"  she  replied  more  softly. 
"  I  am  sure  of  it.  This  .  .  .  this  wretched- 
ness cannot  go  on  long.  In  a  few  years  it  will 
be  all  right.  Something  may  happen — something 
must  happen.  If  we  married  we  should  find  out 
the  utter  folly  of  it  in  a  year,  and  think  of  what 
we  should  have  to  face  then." 

Like  the  proverbial  postscript  to  a  woman's 
letter,  the  true  thought,  the  inward  secret  motive 
of  her  heart  came  last.  She  must  have  been 
very  sure  of  her  power  over  herself  and  over  the 
man  before  her,  or  she  would  not  have  dared  to 
speak  the  words. 

"Besides,"  she  added,  as  she  moved  a  little 
and  pretended  to  be  attending  to  her  duties — "  be- 
sides, you  must  think  of  your  own  family.  You 
must  think  of  your  career.  It  would  be  ruined. 
The  great  absorbing  desire  of  your  life  would  be 
•entirely  frustrated  if  you  married  a  .  .  . 
a    .     .     ." 

"Syra,"  interrupted  Dr.  Leonard,  "for  God's 
sake,  don't  be  so  hard  upon  yourself!" 


SYRAS  SECRET  191 

"  It  is  best  to  look  things  in  the  face,"  she  an- 
swered, in  a  dull  voice.  Then  she  broke  into  a 
sudden  laugh  which  was  terrible  to  hear,  it  was 
so  utterly  devoid  of  mirth,  so  hopelessly  miser- 
able. 

"In  ten  years,"  she  continued  recklessly,  "  we 
will  laugh  at  all  this." 

He  winced  at  the  sound  of  her  voice,  it  was  so 
cruelly  harsh.  Perhaps  he  realized  for  a  moment 
what  a  terrible  struggle  was  going  on  behind  that 
laugh,  but  he  never  knew  the  full  extent  of  it. 
He  could  not.  It  was  an  impossibility  for  him  to 
realize  what  this  girl  was  sacrificing  for  his  sake. 
She  was  right — of  course  she  was  right — in  the 
principle.  They  would  not  have  been  happy  to- 
gether; but  who  is?  Who  is  entirely  happy 
when  the  glamour  fades  away  ^  And  it  is  cur- 
rently supposed  that  a  few  years'  rejoicing  in  that 
glamour  are  worth  the  risk  of  what  may  follow. 
Soft — so  be  it!  Let  us  shrug  our  shoulders  and 
go  on  our  way.  We  must  live  and  understand  it 
not,  grieve  and  comprehend  it  not,  rejoice  and 
lose  the  joy.  Our  lives  must  be  lived  in  a  state  of 
semi-blindness,  of  wishing  to  see  more,  to  under- 
stand a  little  more  the  point  of  it  all. 

Syra's  had  been  a  joyless  life.  Beauty  had  been 
given  her,  for  what  ?  A  great  temptation — noth- 
ing more.  Intellect  of  a  certain  keen  order  had 
been  vouchsafed  to  her,  to  the  furtherance  of 
what  end  }  That  she  might  have  thoughts  above 
her  station,  that  she  might  dream  of  better  things 


192  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

and  realize  that  they  were  beyond  her  reach,  that 
she  might  raise  herself  from  the  lower  rungs  to 
the  glorious  position  of  barmaid  in  a  Bohemian 
drinking  den. 

"Tell  me,  Syra,"  said  the  young  doctor  pres- 
ently, " has  it  always  been     .     .     .     me?'' 

"Yes,"  she  answered  simply,  "always." 

He  rose  from  his  seat  and  went  nearer  to  her. 
His  eyes  met  hers  over  the  arrayed  glasses  and 
decanters. 

"Then  you  must  marry  me,"  he  said  stub- 
bornly, "and  we  will  go  away  and  try  our  luck 
in  some  other  country." 

"No,"  she  answered  gently;  "no,  I  will  never 
do  that.  I  have  heard  the  students  talking  of 
you,  and  Mr.  Crozier  has  told  me  what  others  say 
of  you.  You  have  a  splendid  career  before  you — 
follow  it,  and  ...  for  heaven's  sake  don't 
come  here! " 

But  he  merely  shook  his  head. 

"No,"  he  answered,  "1  cannot  agree  to  that; 
I  must  come  until  you  give  in  or  go  away.  You 
don't  know  what  torture  it  is  to  me,  Syra,  to 
think  that  you  are  here,  a  prisoner  from  morning 
till  night,  a  slave  who  has  to  smile  upon  the  first 
comer  and  do  his  bidding.  It  ought  not  to  have 
lasted  so  long  as  this,  but  I  never  knew  .  .  . 
You  hid-  it  from  me  too  well.  I  thought  it  was 
Tom  Valliant." 

"No,"  she  murmured. 

"Or  Crozier,"  almost  suspiciously. 


SYRA'S  SECRET  193 

She  ceased  her  occupation  of  arranging  some 
small  coffee-cups  and  saucers  upon  a  shelf  behind 
the  counter,  stopped  abruptly,  and  left  the  task 
half  done. 

"Oh  no,"  she  said  slowly,  reflecting  gravely; 
"  I  admire  him  very  much.  He  is  a  better  man 
than  he  himself  is  aware  of,  which  is  very  rare. 
It  was  better,  perhaps,  that  you  should  have 
thought  that  1  cared  for  him,  because  .  .  . 
because  it  has  made  you  what  you  are.  I  think 
we  are  all  the  better  for  having  met  and  come 
under  the  influence,  however  slight,  of  Sam  Cro- 
zier." 

She  finished  with  a  shadowy,  pathetic  smile,  as 
if  half  ashamed  at  the  vehemence  of  her  own 
words,  and  at  the  same  moment  there  was  a  sound 
of  mingled  voices  in  the  outer  bar,  accompanied 
by  approaching  footsteps. 

'*Here  they  come,"  she  whispered. 

"I  am  sure,"  he  said  hurriedly,  lingering  a  mo- 
ment, "that  it  will  all  come  right  in  the  end." 

But  there  was  no  assurance  in  his  voice,  no 
gleam  of  hope  in  his  eyes. 

"  Why  should  it  ? "  she  asked  bitterly.  "There 
is  no  reason  why  things  should  come  right.  It  is 
so  much  easier  for  them  to  go  wrong." 

And  he  turned  away  from  her,  passing  out  of 
the  little  room,  sick  at  heart,  with  her  hopeless 
tones  still  ringing  in  his  ears. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

FORTUNE  SMILES 

A  FEW  mornings  later,  Crozier  was  placidly 
disposing  of  a  very  fair  breakfast  with  the  help 
of  a  newspaper  propped  up  against  the  coffee- 
pot, when  Tom  Valliant  appeared.  The  medical 
student  placed  his  hat  gravely  upon  the  head  of' 
a  bronze  statuette  that  stood  upon  the  .mantel- 
piece, and  then  sat  down. 

"Good-morning,  Samuel,"  he  said.  Then  he 
raised  the  covers  of  one  or  two  dishes  with  some 
anxiety.  "  The  cupboard  is  bare,"  he  remarked, 
regretfully. 

"  Yes;  1  have  cleared  things  off  a  little;  but  of. 
course  you  have  had  your  breakfast." 

"That  is  so,"  answered  Valliant,  as  he  drew 
the  coffee-pot  toward  him;  "but  nevertheless 
.  .  .  " — he  raised  the  lid  and  sniffed  the  steam 
that  rose— "1  will  drink  your  second  cup  for 
you,  just  to  demonstrate  that  our  diplomatic  re- 
lationship is  perfectly  friendly." 

"Will  you  have  it  in  an  egg-cup  or  the  slop- 
basin  ?  "  asked  Crozier,  gravely. 

"Slop-basin,    please,"   replied    Valliant.      He 
was  searching  busily  in  the  breast-pocket  of  his 
coat,  and  presently  he  produced  a  card. 
194 


FORTUNE  SMILES  195 

"Mrs.  Abergeldie  Gibb,"  he  read  aloud,  with 
much  unction,  "at  home  Tuesday,  February  the 
twenty-first,  from  eight  to  twelve.  Dancing. 
R.  S.  V.  P.     Samuel  Crozier,  Esquire." 

He  laid  the  card  aside,  made  a  little  bow,  ac- 
companied by  a  courteous  gesture  of  the  hand, 
and  added  in  a  congratulatory  tone  — 

"  There  you  are,  my  boy!  What  do  you  think 
of  that." 

Crozier  took  up  the  card,  and  examined  it  crit- 
ically, while  his  companion  stirred  his  coffee 
with  a  table-spoon. 

"  Are  you  going  }  "  he  asked. 

"  That,"  answered  Valliant,  "is  precisely  what 
1  don't  know.  There  are  many  questions  in  that 
one — wheels  within  wheels,  as  it  were;  notes  of 
interrogation  inside  notes  of  interrogation,  till 
the  perspective  is  lost  in  a  haze.  Sugar,  please! 
First  of  all,  axtyon  going  ?  Secondly,  is  it  worth 
the  long  journey  }  Thirdly,  think  of  the  dissipa- 
tion of  the  thing.  Eight  to  twelve;  twelve 
o'clock!  Midnight!  Can  .we  stand  it.  Are  our 
constitutions  equal  to  it  ?    Toast,  please!  " 

"  Mine  is.     Have  some  butter!  " 

Crozier  rose  from  his  seat  and  consulted  a 
small  diary  which  lay  upon  the  writing-table. 
As  he  turned  the  pages  he  happened  to  glance 
round,  and  found  Valliant's  eyes  fixed  upon  him 
with  a  certain  questioning  eagerness.  '  There  was 
no  trace  of  a  smile  upon  his  face  now. 

"Yes,"   the   singer  continued,    after  a    short 


iq6  the  phantom  FUTURE 

search,  "I  am  free  on  Tuesday  the  twenty-first. 
I  vote  we  go.     What  do  you  say  ?  " 

"Oh  yes,"  answered  Tom,  carelessly,  while  he 
buttered  a  piece  of  toast.  "Oh  yes,  we  may  as 
well  go.  1  don't  think  I  should  have  gone  alone. 
I  am  not  such  an  enthusiastic  dancer  as  you,  but 
as  you  are  free,  let  us  go  by  all  means." 

Crozier  closed  the  book  and  returned  to  his 
seat.  He  looked  inditTerent,  and  somewhat 
dense;  not  at  all  the  sort  of  person  to  be  reflect- 
ing that  Tom  Valliant  sometimes  overacted  his 
part — a  little. 

"By  the  way,"  he  said,  with  sudden  energy, 
"I  have  some  startling  news — so  startling  that  I 
could  hardly  eat  any  breakfast." 

Tom  Valliant  again  looked  under  the  covers 
with  some  anxiety,  and  a  weight  of  significance. 

"  Let  us  have  it,"  he  remarked  pleasantly.  "  I 
am  strong — tell  me  everything." 

The  singer  selected  a  blue  envelope  from 
among  his  letters,  which  lay,  methodically  folded 
and  replaced  within  their  covers,  upon  the  break- 
fast-table. 

"I  have  had  a  singularly  friendly  letter,"  he 
said,  sarcastically,  "from  a  firm  of  solicitors 
whose  name  I  have  never  heard  of,  to  tell  me 
that  my  mother's  brother  has  been  removed — no 
— I  beg  your  pardon,  has  passed  away.  They 
call  him  my  dear  uncle,  but  1  have  always  under- 
stood that  he  was  rather  a  disagreeable  old  gen- 
tleman.    However,   I  am  of  a  different  opinion 


FORTUNE  SMILES  197 

now — this  letter  has  opened  my  eyes  to  his  true 
worth.  He  has  not  only  left  me  a  quantity  of 
family  plate,  but  certain  moneys  duly  invested 
as  per  schedule,  yielding  an  annual  income  of 
.  .  .  where  is  it  ?  ,  .  ,  of  two  thousand 
one  hundred  and  seven  pounds,  ten  shillings  and 
fourpence." 

Valliant  whistled  softly. 

"What  an  uncle,"  he  murmured  sadly;  "what 
an  uncle  for  a  fellow  to  have!  Shake  hands, 
Sam,  shake  hands!  It  shall  never  be  said  that 
Thomas  Valliant  forsook  an  old  friend  because 
he  was  in  altered  circumstances — never!  " 

The  singer  shook  hands  gravely,  and  returned 
to  the  perusal  of  the  blue  letter. 

"  One  sugar-basin,"  he  read  aloud,  "one  cream- 
jug,  twelve  large  forks,  twelve  small  forks,  six 
table-spoons,  twelve  tea-spoons,  and  a  soup- 
ladle." 

Valliant  nodded  his  head  at  each  item,  as  if  to 
impress  them  upon  his  memory,  and  when  his 
companion  folded  the  letter  with  an  air  of  ex- 
treme satisfaction,  which  was  very  cynical  and 
somewhat  ungrateful,  he  looked  grave. 

"Well  then,"  he  said,  "you  are  lost.  The 
coming  season  will  see  you  drawn  into  a  vortex 
of  well-dressed  vice  and  fashionable  wickedness 
— vide  lady-novelists  who  write  from  the  seclu- 
sion of  Camberwell,  where  they  study  their  sub- 
ject over  a  penny  Society  paper.  Scheming 
mothers  will  quarrel  over  you,  and  in  the  privacy 


198  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

of  the  ladies'  cloak-room  will  say  to  their  daugh- 
ters, '  Now  if  that  man  Samuel  Crozier  is  here — 
the  man  with  the  fuzzy  mustache  and  the  bari- 
tone voice— Jix  him.  1  know  for  certain  that  he 
has,  besides  what  he  makes  by  singing,  two 
thousand  one  hundred  and  seven  pounds,  ten 
shillings  and  fourpence;  twelve  sugar-basins,  six 
cream-jugs,  and  a  soup-ladle.'" 

"But  how  do  you  know.?"  asked  the  singer, 
with  a  smile,  "that  scheming  mothers  have  not 
known  my  brilliant  prospects  all  along  ?  How  do 
you  know  that  1  have  not  been  'fixed,'  as  you 
gracefully  put  it,  hundreds  of  times?" 

Tom  looked  across  the  table  at  him  with  mo- 
mentary gravity. 

"Then  it  is  not  a  surprise?"  he  asked. 

"Not  quite,"  was  the  answer;  "I  always  knew 
there  was  a  chance  of  it." 

"What  a  funny  fellow  you  are!"  observed 
Valliant  musingly,  after  a  short  pause,  during 
which  he  had  lighted  his  pipe.  "And  you  never 
told  me — I  might  have  borrowed  no  end  of 
money  from  you.  If  it  were  not  that  I  am  my- 
self rolling  in  the  golden  rewards  of  honest  toil, 
I  should  feel  inclined  to  do  so  now." 

"It  is  very  good  of  you  to  say  so,"  replied 
Crozier,  pleasantly,  as  he  turned  over  the  proof 
pages  of  a  new  song  which  an  enterprising  pub- 
lisher proposed  (upon  a  financial  basis)  that  he 
should  sing  in  public,  and  allow  the  fact  to  be 
mentioned    on   the   cover.     After   studying   the 


FORTUNE  SMILES  199 

score  for  some  minutes  he  rose  and  tried  the  air 
over  with  the  piano,  singing  in  an  undertone 
while  Valliant  smoked  and  watched  him. 

"I  suppose,"  said  the  latter  shortly,  "that  you 
■will  give  up  this  sort  of  thing?" 

Crozier  swung  round  on  the  music-stool. 

"What! — singing.?  Not!.  Nothing  will  make 
me  give  that  up." 

"Well  then,"  urged  Valliant,  earnestly,  "you 
will  have  to  take  a  house,  and  marry  one  of  those 
eager-looking  musical  eccentricities  who  always 
wear  spectacles  and  a  pencil,  go  to  oratorios  and 
heavy  concerts  with  a  bundle  of  musical  scores 
under  their  arms,  and — if  report  be  true — never 
fail  to  turn  up  when  Samuel  Crozier  is  going  to 
sing." 

The  object  of  this  graceful  flattery  ignored  the 
pleasing  suggestion.  He  had  turned  his  back 
upon  his  companion,  and  was  playing  the  air  of 
his  new  song,  softly. 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  thought  of  buying  a  yacht 
— a  yawl,  1  think.  I  might  take  the  family  plate 
to  sea  and  throw  it  overboard  in  a  gale  of  wind 
by  way  of  lightening  the  vessel  and  removing  the 
responsibility  of  that  soup-ladle  from  my  bach- 
elor shoulders." 

"  There  is  something  in  that,"  rejoined  Valliant 
gravely.  "Honestly  speaking,  Sam,  I  don't  like 
that  family  plate — it  is  not  natural,  and  it  will  in- 
evitably lead  you  into  ill-considered  matrimony. 
In  my  vivid  imagination  I  see  you  already  whis- 


200  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

pering  into  the  ear  of  some  fair  and  well-seasoned 
enslaver:  'If  the  devotion  of  a  lifetime,  in  addi- 
tion to  one  cream-jug,  one  sugar-basin,  twelve 
large  forks  and  twelve  small  dittos,  can  do 
aught  toward  a  woman's  happiness — Araminta, 
they  are  yours;  and  there  is  also  a  soup-ladle! ' 
The  soup-ladle  would  probably  settle  the  mat- 
ter." 

"I  think  1  would  sooner  sink  the  plate  in  the 
yawl,"  said  Crozier,  with  that  pleasant  smile  of 
his,  which  somehow  never  waxed  into  a  laugh. 

Had  Syra,  or  some  other  comparatively  speak- 
ing (for  most  of  us  look  inward  instead  of 
abroad)  observant  person  been  in  the  room  then, 
or  indeed  at  any  other  time  when  these  two  men 
were  together,  it  is  possible  that  she  would  have 
felt  a  peculiar  tension  in  the  atmosphere.  Old 
friends  as  they  were,  devoted  friends  and  up- 
right men,  their  position  toward  each  other  was 
not  honest.  They  were  not  at  their  ease,  and 
each  showed  it  unconsciously  in  the  way  and 
manner  that  belonged  to  his  character.  Tom 
Valliant  with  a  gaiety  and  lightness  of  heart 
which  were  the  outcome  more  of  habit  than  of 
nature.  At  times  it  was  utterly  false,  devoid  of 
humour,  and  to  an  acute  listener  terribly  sad. 
Nature  had  in  her  bounty  given  him  a  light  heart 
and  a  cheery  courage — which  is  human  sunshine; 
but  one  felt  that  this  everlasting  "badinage, "this 
subtle  fear  of  gravity,  had  some  meaning,  and 
the  meaning  could  only  be  that  Fate  had  chosen 


FORTUNE  SMILES  201 

to  spoil  Nature's  good  work.  The  light  heart 
was  fighting  beneath  an  overwhelming  weight. 

And  Crozier!  The  singer  was  never  intended 
for  a  humourist.  He  was  formed  of  good  and 
solid  material  such  as  can  be  shaped  into  a  brave, 
man,  intellectual  enough  for  most  purposes^ 
genial  enough  to  become  a  favourite  and  a  true- 
friend,  and  strong,  self-reliant,  purposeful,  suf- 
ficiently to  win  the  love  of  a  good  woman,  and 
never  let  her  regret  her  choice  during  all  her  life. 
His  quizzical  cynicism,  which  had  no  real  bitter- 
ness in  it,  was  the  fruit  of  circumstances;  und-er 
it  he  hid  such  softer  qualities  and  virtues  as  are 
best  concealed  from  a  preying  and  covetous 
world. 

It  was  therefore  somewhat  pathetic  to  see  him 
(labouring  under  the  disadvantage  of  his  greater 
thoughtfulness)  endeavour  to  keep  pace  with  his 
friend's  lighter  vein. 

As  a  rule  they  were  excellent  companions. 
They  had  many  topics  in  common,  many  mutual 
interests,  and  all  could  be  discussed  openly  and 
freely,  with  one  exception.  The  mention  of 
Goldheath  brought  about  that  strange  tension 
which  was  felt  by  both,  though  each  concealed 
the  feeling  as  well  as  lay  in  his  power.  There 
are  some  things  which  are  better  left  unexplained. 
We  talk  of  the  ravelled  web  of  human  life  which 
is  one  day  to  be  disentangled,  we  whisper  of 
mysteries  which  will  be  cleared  up  in  the  Here- 
after; but  let  us  hope  that  everything  will  not  be 


202  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

touched  upon  in  that  great  clearing  up  of  human 
mistakes,  the  final  explanation  of  things  that  are 
dark  and  meaningless  to  us  now.  Let  us  hope 
that  many  sleeping  dogs  will  be  allowed  to  lie. 
There  are  a  thousand  unexplained  things  in  every 
life  which,  although  they  may  never  be  forgotten 
and  may  influence  the  entire  existence  of  several 
persons,  are  better  left  untouched.  Among  these 
there  is  of  course  a  large  majority  which  might 
very  easily,  and  some  people  think,  very  profit- 
ably, be  exclaimed  now — from  lip  to  ear,  or  with 
pen  and  paper;  but  such  frankness,  such  honesty, 
and  such  idiotic  plain-spokenness  would  only 
serve  to  make  our  threescore  years  and  ten  a 
greater  muddle  than  they  already  are. 

Reticence  is  not  usually  classed  among  the 
standard  virtues.  It  occupies  a  somewhat  dis- 
tressing position  midway  between  them  and  the 
rabble  of  minor  vices.  With  an  adjective  before 
it  in  praise  or  blame,  it  can  be  made  to  serve  as 
either,  but  the  position  is  ever  a  false  one.  It 
ought  originally  to  have  been  elected  boldly  to 
the  higher  place,  and  much  doubtfulness  of  mind 
would  have  been  spared  us,  while  a  clearer  line 
might  have  been  drawn  between  connivance  at  a 
mistake  and  unvarnished  falsehood. 

Perhaps  reticence  has  never  had  its  due  recog- 
nition, because  in  many  instances  it  is  a  mere 
habit,  with  all  a  habit's  power  of  growing  and 
increasing  until  it  is  nature.  Samuel  Crozier  was 
by  nature  a  reticent  man;  with  Tom  Valliant  the 


FORTUNE  SMILES  20} 

quality  was  a  habit  acquired  from  association 
with  one  whom  he  admired  and  respected  as  he 
admired  and  respected  no  other  human  being 
upon  earth. 

They  both  felt  this  dull  embarrassment,  which 
was  hardly  visible,  but  existed  nevertheless  at  the 
mere  mention  of  Goldheath.  The  feeling  was 
less  intense,  perhaps,  with  Crozier  than  with  Val- 
liant,  because  the  sailor  possessed  a  greater  power 
of  self-control,  and  there  is  no  doubt  that  the  ex- 
ercise of  this  power  over  any  particular  emotion 
or  sense  is  liable  in  time  to  deprive  that  sense  of 
existence;  but  his  observation  was  keener,  and 
Valliant's  least  glance  or  movement  was  rarely 
lost.  Thus  they  had  gone  on  for  years,  without 
ever  approaching  nearer  to  an  explanation,  and 
now  it  was  too  late.  The  habit  had  grown  too 
strong,  the  silence  too  sacred.  But,  despite  what 
may  be  said  about  frankness  and  plain-speaking, 
1  maintain  that  they  were  better  thus.  It  was  one 
of  those  instances  where  the  explanation  had  bet- 
ter never  be  given,  for  is  not  a  friendship  with 
but  one  flaw  in  it  superior  to  one  that  is  broken 
up  ?  Had  either  of  them  spoken  with  a  view  of 
dispelling  the  cloud  that  rose  at  times,  things 
never  would  have  been  the  same  again. 

Of  most  things  they  talked  freely  enough,  and 
Valliant  was  frequently  confidential  respecting  his 
own  affairs;  but  Goldheath  and  the  doings  there 
never  came  under  discussion.  When  they  left 
its  broad,  hospitable  door  the  subject  was  by  tacit 


204  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

understanding  shelved.  Men  have  this  way  of 
doing  things  more  frequently  than  women.  Some 
there  are  who  go  through  life  without  ever  dis- 
cussing an  unsettled  point  even  with  father, 
brother,  or  dearest  friend,  and  the  question  is 
never  answered  with  earthly  lips,  never  seen  with 
earthly  understanding.  Crdzier  never  thanked 
Valliant  effusively  for  procuring  him  directly  or 
indirectly  an  invitation  to  Goldheath  at  a  time 
when  acceptance  was  permitted  by  his  engage- 
ments, and  Tom  expected  no  such  thanks. 

It  would  have  been  natural  when  travelling  to- 
gether from  or  to  Goldheath  to  speak  of  past  or 
anticipated  pleasures  there,  but  no  such  words 
fell  from  either  of  them.  There  were  plenty  of 
other  subjects  possessing  mutual  interest,  and  on 
these  they  conversed  until  their  minds  were  fully 
occupied  by  other  thoughts,  and  Goldheath  was 
laid  aside  or  forgotten. 

As  Valliant  rose  to  go  when  Mrs.  Sanders  had 
with  miraculous  rapidity  cleared  away  the  break- 
fast things,  a  few  words  were  spoken  with  ref- 
erence to  Mrs.  Gibb's  invitation,  which  they  ar- 
ranged to  accept  separately,  while  Tom  wrote  to 
Mrs.  Valliant,  intimating  that  they  would  take  ad- 
vantage of  her  hospitality  expressed  in  a  letter  re- 
ceived by  him. 

"Of  course  we  will  go  to  Goldheath  to  dine 
and  sleep?"  said  Valliant,  interrogatively,  as  he 
drew  on  his  gloves  carefully. 

Crozier  was  standing  before  the  fire  smoking  a 


FORTUNE  SMILES  205 

wooden  pipe,  while  his  hands  were  thrust  into 
his  pockets. 

"Yes,"  he  said  briefly.  "Is  it  necessary  for 
me  to  write,  or  will  you  accept  for  both  ?  " 

"I  will  write — that  will  be  enough." 

Valliant  moved  slowly  across  the  room  toward 
the  door.  Crozier  continued  smoking  and  staring 
into  the  fire. 

"  G'morning,  Sam,"  said  the  medical  student. 

Crozier  turned  and  looked  over  his  shoulder, 
but  Valliant  was  already  out  of  the  room,  and  the 
door  was  slowly  swinging  on  its  ancient  and 
noiseless  hinges. 

"Good-morning,"  he  called  out. 

Then  he  walked  to  the  window  and  stood  look- 
ing out.  Valliant  crossed  Lime  Court  without 
glancing  back,  and  passed  through  the  narrow 
doorway  leading  westward  toward  the  Strand. 

"I  thought,"  muttered  the  singer,  without 
taking  the  pipe  from  his  lips,  "that  there  was 
something  from  .  .  .  Goldheath  as  soon  as 
he  came  in!" 


CHAPTER  XIX 

A  SHADOW  FORECAST 

Syra  had  in  no  way  exaggerated  matters  when 
she  told  Crozier,  in  her  abrupt,  neat  manner,  that 
the  world  was  pleased  to  consider  that  his  influ- 
ence over  Tom  Valliant  was  not  exactly  beneficial. 
But  she  had  put  rather  a  different  emphasis  upon 
the  words,  and  so  altered  the  meaning  into  a  de- 
cided expression  of  condemnation. 

It  was  not  considered  in  Syra's  world  a  very 
disgraceful  proceeding  to  go  to  the  bad.  So 
many  had  done  it,  and  having  reached  that  mystic 
bourne  appeared  sufficiently  well-to-do  and  quite 
happy,  that  there  was  almost  a  sense  of  merit  in 
it.  Vice  most  certainly  has  a  subtle  fascination 
for  women  and  very  young  men.  All  Saint  An- 
tony's students  admired,  in  a  way,  the  out-at-el- 
bows  scamps  who  frequented  Myra's  whenever 
they  possessed  the  price  of  a  beverage;  and  there- 
fore, when  it  had  been  said  that  Tom  Valliant 
was  going  to  the  "dogs,"  and  that  Sam  Crozier 
was  in  no  way  attempting  to  stop  his  career,  there 
was  no  virtuous  ring  of  horror  in  the  remark. 

"Sam — dear  old  Sam,"  was  different  from 
other  men.  He  could  do  things  which  other  men 
could  not  do — associate  with  questionable  char- 
206 


A  SHADOW  FORECAST  507 

acters  without  any  one  thinking  the  worse  of 
him — frequent  questionable  places  without  being 
noticed  there.  Outward  influence  never  moved 
him.  But  Valliant  was  different.  Unconsciously 
prominent,  he  did  not  possess  the  happy  faculty 
of  passing  anywhere  unnoticed.  His  escapades 
were  talked  of,  his  name  freely  passed  from  lip 
to  lip,  while  no  one  took  the  trouble  to  inquire 
whether  Crozier  had  been  there  or  not. 

When  Tom  Valliant  first  came  to  Saint  Antony's 
it  was  distinctly  and  openly  under  the  wing  of 
Samuel  Crozier,  who  was  known  to  many  of  the 
students,  notably  to  Wilson  Leonard  and  other 
older  men,  who  were  studying  a  special  subject 
without  attending  every  lecture.  Crozier  and 
Valliant  had  been  seen  together  at  all  times  and 
in  all  places,  with  the  usual  result  of  associating 
their  names  together  in  men's  minds.  Where 
Crozier  was,  Valliant  might  be  expected  to  come, 
and  vice  versa.  But  this  had  not  lasted  long  be- 
fore the  singer  deliberately  adopted  another  course. 
He  saw  that  Valliant's  daily  existence  was  in 
many  details  a  very  different  life  from  that  of  a 
professional  singer.  The  hours  of  sleeping  and 
waking  were  for  the  student  different  from  his 
own.  While  his  own  days  were  leisurely  if  not 
exactly  idle,  Tom's  were  busy,  and  the  night  was 
required  for  rest.  However  he  looked  at  it,  from 
whatever  side  he  asked  the  question  in  his  own 
mind,  Crozier  recognized  the  fact  that  too  close  a 
friendship  with  himself  was  not  conducive  to  the 


2o8  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

ultimate  benefit  of  the  young  fellow  tacitly  con- 
sidered to  be  under  his  protection. 

He  therefore  drew  back  imperceptibly,  accepted 
engagements  to  sing  in  provincial  towns,  and 
eschewed  the  society  of  Saint  Antony's  men.  In 
a  word,  he  withdrew  his  influence,  from  a  mod- 
est assumption  that  it  was  likely  to  do  more  harm 
than  good.  But  the  old  association  of  the  two 
names  held  good,  and  casual  observers  saw  no 
difference. 

About  this  time  a  great  change  came  over  Tom 
Valliant,  who  was  now  in  his  second  year.  He 
suddenly  became  a  leader  instead  of  being  led; 
and  moreover,  he  who  had  been  rather  quiet  and 
thoughtful,  was  the  first  among  the  noisier  and 
gayer  of  Saint  Antony's  students. 

Crozier  noticed  this,  and  concluded  that  it  was 
the  natural  result  of  association  with  men  of 
lighter  stamp  and  a  more  congenial  age  than  him- 
self. But  among  these  new  companions  there 
were  some  whom  the  singer  did  not  like — such 
men  as  Walter  Varden — and  when  it  was  too  late 
he  endeavoured  to  regain  his  influence  over 
Valliant.  However,  as  previously  stated,  Valliant 
had  in  the  meantime  changed,  and  the  attempt 
failed  signally. 

Thus  Samuel  Crozier  found  himself  in  the  pain- 
ful position  of  being  morally  responsible  in  the 
eyes  of  the  world  for  the  misdoings  of  a  man 
over  whom  he  could  not  attempt  to  exercise 
influence  without  incurring  the  risk  of  losing  his 


A  SHADOW  FORECAST  209 

friendship.  However,  the  singer  did  not  attach 
much  importance  to  the  world's  opinion,  and 
being  himself  content  that  Valliant  was  not  going 
to  the  bad,  and  never  would,  he  merely  watched 
matters  from  a  distance,  without  interfering  or 
thrusting  himself  forward  in  any  way,  when  he 
had  once  discovered  that  his  intluence  was  pow- 
erless. 

He  saw  and  knew  the  better  side  of  his  friend's 
life,  while  to  Syra  the  worst  only  was  presented, 
and  it  was  therefore  only  natural  that  she  should 
treat  the  matter  more  seriously  and  upbraid  the 
patient  singer  for  his  apparent  indifference,  which 
she  did  freely  and  sincerely  whenever  she  had 
the  opportunity.  Indeed  this  was  the  only  sub- 
ject which  was  discussed  by  them  with  gravity. 

Syra's  exhortations  did  not,  however,  lead  him 
to  deviate  from  the  course  he  had  laid  out  for 
himself,  much  as  he  respected  her  judgment  and 
appreciated  her  sincerity. 

These  two  may  at  times  have  failed  to  under- 
stand each  other,  but  there  was  on  the  other  hand 
a  singular  lack  of  ////^understanding.  Both  rec- 
ognized the  presence  in  the  other  of  some  few 
thoughts  and  a  stray  motive  or  two  which  were 
hidden  from  all;  and  these,  both  in  turn  respected. 
Neither  attempted  to  fathom  the  other;  there  was 
too  much  mutual  respect  for  that,  absurd  as  it 
may  seem  to  apply  such  a  word  to  a  barmaid. 
Thus  Crozier  never  quite  understood  Syra's  inter- 
est in  Tom  Valliant;  that  it  was  sincere  he  never 


210  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

doubted,  and  that  it  was  without  afterthought  he 
was  convinced.     Beyond  that  he  knew  nothing. 

The  girl's  words  were  not  entirely  lost  upon 
him  when  she  told  him  that  his  own  name  was 
coupled  with  Valliant's  in  a  manner  likely  to 
come  to  the  ears  of  his  family,  with  the  usual 
kindly  additions  of  such  imaginations  as  it  might 
touch  in  passing  from  mouth  to  mouth.  He  had 
told  Elma  that  his  influence  over  Tom  was  for 
no  good,  but  she  had  chosen  to  disbelieve  him. 
If,  now,  the  same  opinion  came  to  her  from  an- 
other quarter  she  might  be  shaken  in  her  disbe- 
lief, and  this  scepticism  had  been  very  pleasant 
to  the  singer. 

One  evening,  a  few  days  after  Syra  had  spoken, 
Crozier  conceived  the  idea  that  he  had  neglected 
Tom  Valliant  of  late.  That  strange  mutual  em- 
barrassment which  arose  whenever  the  topic  up- 
permost in  both  their  minds  was  broached,  had 
not  of  late  decreased,  and  this  perhaps  led  to  a 
slight  mutual  avoidance.  In  fact,  the  friends 
were  drifting  away  from  each  other,  as  men  do 
when  a  woman's  shadow  comes  between.  There 
was  nothing  definite,  nothing  tangible  beyond 
that  vague  embarrassment,  and  instead  of  lessen- 
ing their  mutual  affection  it  added  to  it.  It  was 
not  indifference  that  caused  them  to  drift  apart, 
but  increased  affection  and  the  shadowy  forecast 
of  an  unavoidable  sorrow. 

With  these  indefinite  thoughts  struggling  for 
mastery  in  a  mind  which  would  n.ot  allow  itself 


A  SHADOW  FORECAST  2:1 

to  think,  Samuel  Crozier  pushed  his  way  through 
the  crowd  that  surrounded  the  stage-door  of  a 
great  concert-hall,  and  bent  his  steps  toward 
Myra's.  The  evening  had  been  a  brilliant  one, 
and  his  clear  steady  voice  had  as  usual  proved 
true  to  his  desire,  and  quite  indefatigable.  He 
never  seemed  to  take  a  note  that  caused  him  the 
least  exertion,  and  he  never  made  a  mistake. 
The  rich  harmony  vibrated  from  his  lips  over  the 
heads  of  the  audience  with  a  wonderful  fluency 
and  ease,  while  to  him  it  was  a  pleasure  in  which 
no  tricks  of  art  could  be  detected. 

As  a  rule  he  went  straight  home  when  his 
work  was  done,  or  at  the  most  called  in  at  a  club. 
Of  late .  he  rarely  went  to  Myra's,  where  his  ab- 
sence was  scarcely  commented  upon.  Success- 
ful men  were  in  the  habit  of  dropping  their  ac- 
quaintance with  the  little  meeting-place,  which 
was,  as  Tom  Valliant  once  remarked,  essentially 
a  depot  for  "  returned-empties  " ;  and  it  was  only 
natural  that  Sam  Crozier  should  follow  the  uni- 
versal custom. 

To-night  he  was  going  to  Myra's,  and  he  knew 
that  Syra's  words  were  drawing  him  thither. 
Tom  would  be  there,  and  into  Tom's  life  he  was 
determined  to  force  himself  again. 

A  few  yards  from  the  door  he  met  Walter  Var- 
den,  who  was  hurrying  in  the  opposite  direction. 

The  medical  student  stopped  short  when  he 
saw  the  singer,  and  recognized  him  in  the  yellow 
light  of  an  open  shop-window. 


212  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

"Hallo,  Crozier!"  he  said,  rather  breathlessly. 
"Going  to  Myra's  ?  They  want  you  there. 
Hell  of  a  row  going  on !  A  couple  of  German 
fellows  have  found  their  way  into  the  inner  bar 
somehow.  The  men  did  not  like  it,  of  course, 
and  when  they  began  making  up  to  Syra  things 
began  to  look  black.  Then  one  of  them  said 
something  to  the  other  about  her  in  German,  and 
Valliant  flared  up.  He  understood  it,  it  appears, 
but  nobody  else  did.  I  think  there  is  going  to  be 
a  scrimmage." 

Crozier  moved  away  a  step  or  two. 

"So,"  he  said,  in  a  withering  undertone,  "you 
have  discovered  a  convenient  engagement  else- 
where!" 

He  walked  rapidly  on,  and  only  partially  heard 
Varden,  who  was  left  explaining  to  the  lamp- 
post that  he  "er  .  .  .  er  he  had  to  meet  a 
fella." 

As  the  singer  passed  through  the  outer  bar, 
Myra  looked  into  his  face  with  a  ludicrous  mix- 
ture of  anxiety  and  bewilderment  written  upon 
her  round  features. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Crozier,"  she  exclaimed,  asthmatic- 
ally,  "I  don't  know  what  they're  doing  inside  at 
all.     I'm  afraid  they're  quarrelling!  " 

Through  the  folds  of  the  curtain  came,  how- 
ever, only  the  sound  of  one  voice — the  light  tones 
of  Tom  Valliant,  with  an  uncomfortably  strained 
ring  in  its  lower  pitch. 

"I'll    count    six,"   he   was    saying,    "and    at 


A  SHADOW  FORECAST  213 

the  word  six  out  you  go!  .  .  .  One  .  .  . 
two     .     .     ." 

And  Crozier  drew  back  the  curtain.  He  took 
in  the  whole  situation  at  a  ghmce.  The  two 
Germans  were  standing  with  their  backs  toward 
him  at  the  top  of  the  two  steps,  while  Tom 
Valliant  stood  before  them  pomting  toward  the 
curtain.  His  face  was  not  only  colourless — it 
was  livid,  and  there  was  in  his  dark  eyes  a 
steady,  cruel  glitter. 

"Three  .  .  ."  he  uttered  harshly,  as  Crozier 
passed  into  the  inner  room,  allowing  the  curtains 
to  fall  together  behind  him. 

Both  the  foreigners  were  bigger  men  than 
Valliant,  and  undoubtedly  more  powerful.  They 
were  hesitating  painfully  before  that  bloodless 
face.  It  was  braver  to  be  a  coward  then ;  and 
to  their  credit  it  must  be  recorded  that  they  did 
not  fear  the  man  so  much  as  the  possible  con- 
sequences to  himself  of  this  wild  rage.  Thai 
was  the  cause  of  their  hesitation  whether  to  go 
or  not.  Crozier  had  no  time  to  judge,  no  mo- 
ment in  which  to  consider  whether  the  foreigners 
were  to  blame  for  an  ungentlemanly  act  which 
warranted  Valliant's  indignation,  or  whether  they 
had  merely  trespassed  against  the  customs  of  a 
strange  country  through  ignorance  or  heedless- 
ness, just  as  we  Englishmen  trespass  against  the 
customs  of  every  land  wherein  we  travel. 

Without  a  moment's  hesitation  he  placed  him- 
self between  Valliant  and  the  intruders,  an  ac- 


214  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

tion  which  no  other  man  would  have  dared  just 
then. 

"Out  of  this!"  he  said,  in  a  dull,  hard  tone. 
"  Out  of  this  at  once!  " 

Valliant  was  grasping  the  counter  with  one 
slim  hand,  the  other  was  pressed  to  his  side  as  if 
to  quell  a  sudden  pain.  He  stepped  forward, 
and  stood  side  by  side  with  his  friend,  but  said 
no  word — made  no  attempt  to  interfere.  Crozier 
had  taken  up  the  quarrel  where  he  had  been 
forced  to  drop  it,  without  inquiry,  without  a 
shred  of  justice  perhaps;  but  he  was  content 
that  it  was  Tom  Valliant  s  quarrel,  and  took 
upon  himself  the  responsibility  of  carrying  it 
through  in  his  masterly,  self-restraining  fashion. 

There  was  a  half-emptied  tankard  of  beer  upon 
the  counter,  and  with  his  soft  fat  hand  the  German 
pointed  to  it. 

"But,"  he  argued,  "I  have  not  paid  for  my 
drink!" 

"1  will  pay  for  your  drink,"  replied  Crozier, 
with  a  short,  disagreeable  laugh.  "Out  you 
go!" 

The  foreigners  both  smiled  in  a  sickly  way, 
and  he  whose  quarrel  it  was  shrugged  his 
shoulders  and  stretched  out  his  hands  toward  the 
tankard,  but  Crozier  was  before  him.  He  did 
not  hurl  the  metal  cup  to  the  ground,  or  spill  a 
single  drop  of  its  contents,  but  he  drew  it  calmly 
away. 

The  German  looked  quickly  round  the  room. 


A  SHADOW  FORECAST  215 

There  were  half-a-dozen  men  present  who  stood 
idly  watching,  and  into  the  Teutonic  mind  there 
entered  no  gleam  of  intelligence  to  explain  their 
idleness;  he  had  no  conception  of  the  meaning  of 
the  word  "  fair-play,"  and  never  imagined  that  a 
difference  in  numbers  would  be  respected.  In 
his  calmer  moments  this  difference  had  restrained 
him,  but  now  he  lost  sight  of  it. 

"  My  beer,"  he  said,  doggedly,  holding  out  his 
hand,     "  Give  me  my  beer!  " 

And  there  followed  a  few  muttered  words  in 
guttural  German. 

"  Be  careful!  "  said  Crozier,  with  singular  soft- 
ness.    "  1  understand  German." 

The  foreigner  looked  into  the  stalwart  singer's 
face,  and  something  there  drove  the  colour  from 
his  cheeks,  while  his  hand  dropped  to  his  side. 

"My  friend  counted  as  far  as  three,"  con- 
tinued the  Englishman.  "  1  will  go  on  where  he 
left  off    .     .     .     Four    .     .     ." 

There  was  no  ring  of  passion,  in  this  voice, 
but  its  gentleness  was  even  less  pleasant  to 
listen  to. 

Then  the  foreigners  shuffled  restlessly  with 
their  feet,  and  the  younger  man,  who  had  not 
hitherto  spoken,  muttered  a  few  pacific  words 
and  touched  his  friend's  sleeve.  Before  Crozier 
could  say  "five  "  they  were  gone,  and  the  heavy 
curtains  hung  motionless. 

There  was  for  some  seconds  an  awkward 
stillness  in  the  little  room,  which  was  ultimately 


2i6  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

broken  by  a  squarely-built  middle-aged  man, 
who  came  forward  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
and  looked  critically  at  the  steps  leading  down 
into  the  outer  bar.  This  man  was  a  poet,  more 
or  less  successful,  very  lazy,  and  a  noted  big- 
game  hunter. 

"That  would  have  been  an  awkward  fall, 
Sam,"  he  said  critically,  "for  Germanicus  to  go 
down  backward.  1  saw  you  measuring  the  dis- 
tance with  your  eye." 

Crozier  laughed  in  a  constrained  manner. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "beastly  place  to  land  on  the 
back  of  one's  head." 

"  1  expect,"  said  some  one  in  the  background, 
"  that  Sam's  ocular  measurement  settled  the  mat- 
ter. Deutscher  saw  the  evil  glance,  and  thought 
of  his  mother." 

In  Syra's  sanctum  men  laughed  easily,  and 
under  cover  of  the  merriment  that  followed  this 
graceful  sally,  the  singer  met  the  girl's  eyes  fixed 
persistently  on  his  face.  Although  breathing 
somewhat  hurriedly,  as  could  be  seen  by  the 
rise  and  fall  of  her  close  black  dress,  she  was 
apparently  attending  to  her  duties  with  a 
customary  calmness.  But  when  she  caught 
Crozier's  glance  a  momentary  gleam  of  life 
passed  across  her  face.  Her  eyes  and  lids  said 
to  him  quite  plainly  — 

"Take  him  away!  " 

With  an  almost  imperceptible  nod  he  reas- 
sured her,  but  carefully  avoided  looking  toward 


A  SHADOW  FORECAST  217 

Tom  Valliant,  who  was  sipping  his  weak  whis- 
key-and-water  with  a  faint  and  slightly  embar- 
rassed smile. 

"Syra,"  he  said  aloud,  in  his  usual  semi-ban- 
tering tone,  "have  you  any  of  that  tepid  and 
opaque  coffee  for  which  you  are  justly  celebrated 
at  this  time  of  night,  because  1  should  like 
some  ?  " 

She  tossed  her  head  with  mechanical  sauciness 
and  an  appropriate  smile,  as  she  drew  the  de- 
sired beverage,  clear,  and  brown  and  hot  from 
the  urn. 

"Some  people,"  she  said,  as  she  handed  him 
the  cup,  and  pushed  sugar-basin  and  cream-jug 
toward  him  noiselessly,  neatly,  rapidly,  "are 
never  satisfied." 

"No,"  chimed  in  a  grave  journalist,  who,  be- 
ing an  Irish  Roman  Catholic,  wrote  for  a  Metho- 
dist weekly  organ.  "No,  I  expect  when  Sam  is 
placed  among  the  baritones  in  the  heavenly 
choir,  he  will  complain  that  his  halo  is  a  misfit." 

"And,"  suggested  a  star  of  the  comic-opera, 
mischievously,  with  his  nose  in  a  long  glass 
which  contained  nothing  more  poisonous  than 
lemon  squash,  "and  will  refuse  the  engage- 
ment." 

This  was  a  decided  hit  for  Crozier,  and  was 
accordingly  well  received.  The  laugh  was  very 
much  against  the  singer,  and  he  smiled  with 
quiet  appreciation  of  the  situation. 

And  so  the  conversation  went  on.     Not  very 


2i8  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

brilliant,  you  will  say;  not  worthy  of  the  un- 
questionable talent  possessed  by  some  of  the 
speakers;  not  such  as  a  man  like  Samuel  Crozier 
— who  possessed  the  elements  of  good  son^e- 
"where  hidden  in  his  being — should  take  part  in. 

Nor  was  the  object  difficult  to  reach.  Near  the 
counter  Tom  Valliant  stood  white  and  dazed. 
At  times  he  sipped  his  whiskey-and-water  in  a 
peculiar,  slow  way;  waiting  after  each  mouthful, 
as  if  it  were  a  question  whether  he  could  swal- 
low it  or  not.  He  was  breathing  hard,  and  his 
left  hand  was  still  pressed  to  his  side. 

And  so  they  laughed  and  talked  nonsense, 
heeding  him  not  until  he  was  partially  recovered, 
when  Crozier  announced  his  intention  of  moving 
homeward,  as  he  was  tired  out. 

"Coming,  Tom.^"  he  inquired,  casually. 
■"Come  and  have  a  pipe  in  my  rooms." 

And  he  waited,  so  that  Valliant  could  not  but 
accept.  As  they  passed  through  the  curtained 
doorway  together,  Crozier  took  his  companion's 
arm  in  a  friendly,  affectionate  way,  which  they 
all  knew  was  quite  unlike  his  reserved  habit. 


CHAPTER  XX 

DIPLOMACY 

Neither  spoke  for  some  time,  not  indeed  until 
they  had  left  the  noisy  region  of  the  Strand. 
Then  Tom  broke  the  silence.  He  had  evidently 
noticed  his  companion's  sudden  display  of  affec- 
tion, which  had  taken  the  form  of  linked  arms. 

"I  hope,  old  fellow,"  he  said  lightly,  "that 
you  are  not  under  the  impression  that  I  am  in- 
toxicated." 

If  Crozier  laughed  there  was  no  sound  in  his 
laughter;  but  the  tone  of  his  voice  when  he  re- 
phed  was  such  as  would  have  led  one  to  the 
belief  that  he  was  smiling — no  doubt  at  the 
absurdity  of  his  friend's  notion. 

"No,  1  should  say  you  were  as  sober  as  a  judge» 
There  is  no  visible  tendency  to  poor  steering." 

No  other  words  passed  between  them  before 
they  reached  Lime  Court.  Crozier  opened  the 
door  with  his  latch-key.  Valliant  went  in  first, 
and,  having  climbed  the  stairs  slowly,  passed  into 
the  sitting-room  before  his  friend,  turning  up  the 
gas  and  throwing  his  hat  on  to  the  piano,  while 
the  singer  followed  and  closed  the  door — just  as 
they  had  done  hundreds  of  times  before. 

"Whiskey — water — biscuits — baccy,  "  said  the 
219 


220  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

host,  with  monosyllabic  hospitality,  as  he  placed 
the  articles  mentioned  upon  the  table. 

There  were  half-a-dozen  unopened  letters  upon 
the  writing-table  near  the  window,  and  these 
Crozier  took  up  and  brought  forward  beneath  the 
gas.  Then  he  proceeded  to  open  them  without 
anticipation  or  curiosity,  as  one  learns  to  open 
business  letters. 

Presently  Tom,  who  had  been  thoughtfully 
munching  biscuit  after  biscuit,  looked  up  with 
his  sunny  smile. 

"That  German  deserved  chucking  out,"  he 
said  tentatively. 

Crozier  was  reading  a  letter  with  a  slight  con- 
traction of  the  eydids  amounting  almost  to  a 
frown,  and  he  looked  down  over  the  paper  with- 
out relaxing  his  features. 

"Um  .  .  .  eh  .^  Oh,  yes — he  deserved 
chucking  out." 

"Because,"  continued  Tom,  without  appear- 
ing to  notice  his  friend's  absence  of  mind — "be- 
cause he  was  sober.  Had  he  been  half-seas  over 
J  would  have  forgiven  him." 

Crozier  agreed  vaguely  in  an  unintelligible 
monosyllable,  and  turned  toward  the  writing- 
table,  where  he  opened  his  small  diary  of  en- 
gagements. Clearly  he  did  not  wish  to  discuss 
the  incident  of  Syra's  sanctum — the  subject  had 
no  interest  for  him,  and  he  was  nervously  desir- 
ous that  Tom  should  forget  about  it  as  soon  as 
possible. 


DIPLOMACY  221 

He  came  forward  again  into  the  middle  of  the 
room,  with  the  letter  still  in  his  hand. 

"Here  is  a  piece  of  bad  luck,"  he  said,  with 
singularly  little  sign  of  regret  or  disappointment 
in  his  voice.  "An  afternoon  concert  on  the  day 
of  Mrs.  Gibb's  dance." 

Valliant  looked  up  sharply.  Then  he  shrugged 
his  shoulders  and  took  a  bit  of  biscuit. 

"Oh,  hang  the  afternoon  concert!  " 

"1  cannot  hang  it,  my  boy,"  said  Crozier,  with 
a  smile.  "  1  must  go  and  raise  my  angel  voice — 
by  special  request  of  Royalty!" 

"  By  special  request  .  .  ."  exclaimed  Tom/ 
neatly  catching  the  letter  which  his  companion- 
threw  toward  him.  "Oh,  lor  .  .  .  Royalty* 
1  think  I  should  like  to  go  home  at  once.  You 
are  getting  too  great  a  swell  altogether  for  me, 
Sam." 

Crozier  stood  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
thinking  deeply,  while  his  companion  read  the- 
letter. 

"Yes,"  said  Tom,  after  a  moment's  silence, 
"your  little  hash  is  settled — to  use  a  vulgar  but 
expressive  simile.  You  will  have  to  sing  or  flee 
the  country." 

Then  the  result  of  Crozier's  meditations  came 
forth. 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  I  will  do,"  he  said,  prac- 
tically. "  I  will  sing  my  song,  and  then  bolt  for 
Waterloo  in  time  for  that  train  we  went  down 
by   once — the   five     .     .     .     something    .     .     . 


222  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

which  gets  down  in  time  for  dinner  at  seven.  I 
will  be  dressed,  so  that  1  shall  be  ready  for  any- 
thing.    You  will  go  down  earlier  ?  " 

Tom  moved  in  the  deep  armchair  and  crossed 
his  legs.  He  had  quite  recovered  his  usual  faint 
pink  colour  now,  and  was  smiling  meditatively. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "that  will  do.  If — Men 
entendii — you  think  it  worth  your  while." 

Crozier  yawned. 

"Oh  yes," — politely — "of  course  it  is  worth 
my  while.  I  suppose  we  need  not  come  up  by  a 
very  early  train  the  next  morning.  Will  you  go 
down  on  the  day  of  the  dance,  or  sooner  still  ?  I 
should,  if  I  were  you.  It  is  ridiculous  troubling 
about  Saint  Antony's;  you  will  never  be  a 
doctor." 

Tom  laughed  in  his  silent,  infectious  way. 

"Not  if  I  am  aware  of  the  fact,"  he  confessed, 
in  a  low  tone. 

"Then  why  attend  these  beastly  lectures? 
Why  learn  a  lot  of  things  which  are  not  only 
useless  but  unpleasant,  and  can  do  you  nothing 
but  harm  ?  Surely  there  is  nothing  to  be  gained 
by  investigating  human  misery,  and  it  ought  not 
to  be  an  amusement  for  any  man." 

Valliant  laughed  in  his  most  flippant  and  ag- 
gravating way,  but  made  no  reply. 

"It  would  be  much  better  for  you  to  get  out 
of  all  this,"  continued  Crozier,  unabashed  and 
quite  undaunted  by  his  companion's  merriment. 
**  What  is  the  good  of  your  frittering  away  your 


DIPLOMACY  22} 

time  between  St.  Antony's  and  Myra's,  doing  ab- 
solutely no  good  ?  You  ought  to  be  down  in 
the  country  living  a  quiet,  healthy  life,  and  draw- 
ing from  morning  till  night,  out  of  doors  if  pos- 
sible." 

Valliant  was  still  smiling,  but  there  was  a  little 
unsteadiness  in  his  lower  lip — so  trifling  that  his 
companion  did  not  notice  it.     He  remained  silent. 

"It  is  not  only  from  that  point  of  view  that 
the  fact  is  evident  that  you  should  get  out  of  this, 
Myra's — is  not  what  it  used  to  be,  Tom.  The 
ragamuffin  element  is  on  the  increase,  and  the 
medical  on  the  wane.  The  best  men  from  St. 
Antony's  don't  go  there  now.  It  does  a  fellow's 
reputation  no  good  to  be  known  as  an  Jiabttite." 

"  Does  that  matter  ?  " — unsteadily,  with  a  touch 
of  bitterness. 

"Yes,"  answered  the  singer  very  gravely. 
"It  does.     It  matters  very  much." 

His  pipe  was  in  his  mouth,  but  the  tobacco  was 
not  lighted.  From  his  pocket  he  drew  a  small 
silver  match-box,  and  shook  it  tentatively,  only 
to  find  it  empty.  Then  he  went  to  the  mantel- 
piece, where  a  larger  box  stood  always  fulL 
Slowly  he  proceeded  to  fill  the  smaller  one  with 
great  deliberation,  dropping  each  match  in  sepa- 
rately. As  he  did  this  he  spoke  in  an  even,  specu- 
lative voice. 

"I  have  always  thought  that  a  man's  reputa- 
tion is  a  thing  which  he  should  keep  clean  and 
bright    for  the   edification   of    his   women-folk 


224  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

,  .  .  It  matters  to  you,  Tom,  what  people  say 
and  think,  because  .  .  ."  He  broke  off  in 
order  to  light  his  pipe,  and  apparently  forgot  to 
complete  the  sentence.  "  For  me  it  is  different," 
he  added,  as  he  threw  the  match  away. 

"  I  suppose,"  murmured  Tom,  by  way  of  filling 
up  an  awkward  silence,  "that  it  will  be  all  the 
same  a  hundred  years  hence." 

"No,"  corrected  Crozier  at  once,  "that  is  pre- 
cisely what  it  will  not  be.  It  will  be  quite  differ- 
ent. There  again  is  a  distinction  between  us.  1 
have  a  certain  power  now  over  people;  I  can 
make  them  pay  seven-and-sixpence  for  a  stall  in 
St.  James's  Hall,  or  the  Albert  Hall;  I  can  even 
make  them  shed  a  furtive  tear  when  they  are  in 
the  stall;  but  in  a  hundred  years  there  will  be  ab- 
solutely nothing  left — no  shred  of  memory.  An 
old  song  here  and  there,  brown  and  musty,  will 
record  that  it  was  sung  by  Crozier;  and  some  one 
idly  turning  the  forgotten  music  will  perhaps 
wonder  for  a  moment  who  Crozier  was  and  how 
he  sang.  But  with  you  it  is  quite  another  matter. 
If  you  choose,  you  can  be  a  living,  speaking  in- 
dividuality to  generations  not  yet  born.  Your 
drawings  can  teach  them  to  understand  the  poetry 
of  an  age  which  has  faded  from  living  memory." 

"But,"  suggested  Tom,  half  seriously,  "I 
don't  care  a  hang  for  generations  yet  unborn.  I 
am  afraid  that  1  am  not  thinking  of  them." 

Crozier  looked  down  at  him  quietly.  He  was 
standing  in  his  favourite  position  on  the  hearth- 


DIPLOMACY  22^ 

rug,  with  his  shoulder  against  the  corner  of  the 
mantelpiece  and  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

"No  more  am  I,"  he  said  gently;  "no  more 
am  I,  Tom!     I  am  thinking  of  you." 

Valliant  looked  up  quickly  and  almost  furtively. 
It  was  the  glance  of  a  man  who,  possessing  a 
secret,  fears  that  it  has  long  been  discovered ;  but 
Crozier's  smile  reassured  him. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  wearily,  "I  know  you  are,  old 
man.  There  must  be  many  more  profitable  sub- 
jects to  think  about." 

He  rose  and  took  his  hat,  turning  toward  his 
friend  with  a  sunny  smile. 

"Come,"  he  said,  lightly,  "we  are  getting 
serious,  which  will  never  do.  It  suits  neither 
of  us.  I  cannot  do  it  at  all,  and  when  you  try 
you  only  become  dull  and  uninteresting.  1  am 
desperately  sleepy,  and  so  will  make  a  graceful 
exit." 

Crozier  did  not  move,  so  Valliant  crossed  the 
room  toward  him,  holding  out  his  hand. 

"  Good-night,  Sam." 

"Good-night! " 

Crozier  allowed  him  to  go  as  far  as  the  door 
before  he  spoke.  Then  he  raised  his  voice  a 
little,  and  the  words  fell  very  clearly  from  his 
lips. 

"  If  you  should  go  down  earlier  to  Goldheath," 
he  suggested,  "I  can  bring  any  flov7ers,  or  things 
you  may  require." 

"Flowers    .     .     .      ?      Oh    ves!      Yes,    you 


226  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

might  do  that,  Sam — if  it  is  not  giving  you  too 
much  trouble.  I  had  forgotten  about  flowers, 
though  of  course  they  have  them  down  there,  but 
not  the  proper  sort." 

" Stephanotis,  I  suppose,"  murmured  Crozier, 
between  puffs  of  smoke,  "and  perhaps  some 
white  lilac." 

Tom  was  standing  just  outside  the  door  beneath 
a  gas  jet.  He  was  very  pale,  and  there  were 
dark  rims  round  his  weary  eyes.  He  pushed  his 
hat  on  to  the  back  of  his  head  and  stretched  him- 
self in  an  unnatural  way,  passing  his  hand  across 
his  brow. 

"Are  those  her  .  .  .  the  proper  thing  for 
such  an  occasion  ?"  he  inquired,  with  a  faint  sug- 
gestion of  humourous  sarcasm. 

"  I  should  think  so,"  answered  the  singer,  with 
untruthful  doubt. 

"Right.  I  should  be  much  obliged  if  you 
would  bring  them  down;  but  don't  trouble  too 
much  about  it." 

"Oh,  no  trouble,"  said  Crozier,  indifferently. 

With  a  little  nod  Tom  continued  his  way  down- 
stairs, and  presently  banged  the  front-door  be- 
hind him. 

The  singer  still  leant  against  the  mantelpiece 
and  smoked  placidly.  He  was  particularly  wide 
awake,  and  evidently  had  no  intention  of  going 
to  bed  for  some  time.  So  far  was  this  intention 
from  his  thoughts  that  he  presently  brought 
writing  materials,  and  laid  them  upon  the  table 


DIPLOMACY  227 

in  the  centre  of  the  room,  sitting  down  before 
them  with  leisurely  energy.  All  the  while  he 
hummed  a  tune  beneath  his  breath.  There  were 
many  letters  before  him,  and  these  he  proceeded 
to  investigate  for  a  second  time  with  methodical 
precision;  his  small  diary  open  before  him.  The 
royal  concert  was  duly  noted,  and  the  letter  laid 
aside  for  reply  the  next  morning.  Many  other 
letters  were  treated  in  a  similar  manner — most  of 
them  being  bare-faced  impositions,  practised  un- 
der the  cloak  of  chanty,  upon  his  good-nature. 

At  last  he  came  to  a  note  written  in  a  spidery 
hand  upon  black-edged  paper.  There  was  some- 
thing singularly  suggestive  of  the  lodging-house- 
keeper about  this  communication.  The  postmark 
on  the  envelope  was  Bristol.  Crozier  read  it 
through  slowly,  and  placed  it  in  his  breast-pocket. 

"So  Holdsworth  is  free,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"  and  I  am  richer  by  seventy  pounds  a  year.  She 
has  got  away  from  him  at  last;  but  I  shall  not  tell 
him  until  1  go  down  to  Goldheath." 

Then  he  turned  to  a  batch  of  advertisements, 
mostly  from  ship-chandlers,  riggers,  and  provi- 
sion-merchants in  and  about  Cowes.  These  dis- 
posed of,  he  drew  the  writing-case  toward  him, 
and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  wrote  the  words, 
"Dear  Elma,"  at  the  head  of  a  sheet  of  note-pa- 
per. The  ink  slowly  dried  on  his  pen  while  he  con- 
templated them,  but  he  was  lost  in  no  sentimen- 
tal dreams.  He  was  merely  wondering  whether 
he  should  be  weakly  scrupulous,  which  would 


228  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

be  dangerous,  or  boldly  diplomatic.  He  reflected 
that  Elma  was  always  the  first  down  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  the  letters  were  placed  upon  the  plates 
of  those  persons  to  whom  they  were  addressed. 
It  was  marvellous  how  well  versed  he  was  in  the 
movements  and  habits  of  the  Valliant  household. 
It  was  therefore  a  very  easy  matter  to  get  a  letter 
*nto  Elma's  hands  without  the  knowledge  of  her 
parents.  Bold  diplomacy  was  therefore  his  wisest 
method.  If  the  letter  got  into  other  hands  no 
actual  harm  would  follow,  but  he  preferred  that 
Elma  should  alone  be  aware  of  its  contents,  and 
the  rest  must  be  left  to  her  womanly  wit. 

"  Can  you,"  he  wrote,  "  without  allowing  your 
name  or  mine  to  appear,  arrange  that  Tom  be  in- 
vited to  go  and  stay  at  Goldheath  for  a  few  days, 
until  the  Vicarage  dance  ?  Let  the  letter  be  from, 
your  mother,  and  the  sooner  he  receives  it  the 
better.  If  possible,  let  this  note  be  destroyed, 
and  forgotten  at  once.  1  have  good  reasons  for 
writing  it,  but  must  ask  you  to  trust  me  until  to- 
day week,  when  I  hope  to  go  to  Goldheath." 

He  ceased  writing,  dried  the  letter  carefully 
with  a  sheet  of  blotting-paper,  and  sat,  pen  in 
hand,  thinking. 

"  If,"  he  reflected,  "  this  gets  into  the  old  lady's 
hands  the  whole  affair  will  be  muddled,  and  I 
shall  be  forced  to  tell  her  more  than  I  want  to,  or 
let  her  think  more  than  she  ought  to.  But  1  must 
risk  that  ...  I  must  also  risk  .  .  . 
whatever  Elma  may  think  of  me.     She  is  the  only 


DIPLOMACY  229 

person  who  can  help  me  with  Tom  now.  The 
fact  that  I  am  doing  it  for  Tom's  good  may  occur 
to  her,  and  that  will  be  all  she  wants,  I  think." 

He  added  the  words,  "Yours  very  truly,"  and 
signed  his  full  name  formally. 

Then  he  took  another  sheet  of  paper  and  wrote 
quickly  without  hesitation  — 

"  Dear  Leonard, 

"See  Tom  Valliant  to-morrow  if  you 
can  without  awakening  his  suspicions.  Don't  let 
him  know  that  you  have  heard  from  me.  He  got 
into  a  row  to-night  at  Myra's,  and  I  would  have 
given  thirty  pounds  to  have  had  you  there.  Of 
course  1  am  utterly  ignorant  from  a  medical  point 
of  view;  but  it  seems  to  me  that  he  had  a  close 
shave  of  something  or  other.  He  does  not  know 
that  I  noticed  anything.  I  brought  him  here  for 
a  smoke,  and  he  has  just  gone  to  Craven  Street 
apparently  perfectly  well,  but  I  am  rather  uneasy 
about  him.  Am  trying  to  arrange  sub  rosa  that 
he  gets  away  into  the  country. 
"  Yours, 

"Sam  Crozier." 

The  singer  folded  the  letter,  and  addressed  it  to 
Dr.  Leonard,  at  Saint  Antony's,  and  before  going 
to  bed  he  went  downstairs  and  dropped  both 
communications  into  the  old  pillar-box  let  into 
the  wall  of  No.  1 1,  Lime  Court. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  PLOT 

Elma  was  exceptionally  punctual  the  next 
morning,  but  the  squire  was  before  her. 

When  she  entered  the  little  library  she  found 
her  father  standing  at  the  window  contemplating 
the  walled  garden  where  the  white-frost  lay  in 
parts.  After  placing  her  morning  salutation 
airily  upon  his  white  mustache,  she  turned  to  the 
breakfast-table  with  an  eye  upon  the  coffee-pot. 
Then  she  perceived  that  there  were  three  letters 
upon  her  plate. 

"Ah,"  she  said  in  a  pleased  voice,  "letters. 
Letters  for  me! " 

The  squire  glanced  over  his  shoulder  with  an 
affectionate  smile  upon  his  ruddy  face,  but  Elma's 
back  was  turned  toward  him,  and  so  she  lost  it. 
Her  averted  face  was  quite  grave,  and  she  was 
holding  one  letter  in  her  hand,  reading  the  ad- 
dress in  a  curious,  still  way;  the  others  lay  un- 
heeded on  the  table.  Presently  she  slipped  the 
letter  into  her  pocket  and  opened  the  other  two 
energetically  with  the  prong  of  a  fork.  While 
she  read  them  the  squire  stood  by  the  window 
whistling  softly  to  himself  the  air  of  an  old  hunt- 
ing   song,    of    which    the    memory   had    been 


THE  PLOT  291 

awakened  by  the  sunny  morning,  still  air,  and 
harmless  white-frost,  which  would  presently 
melt  away,  leaving  the  ground  quite  soft. 

After  a  little  while  she  placed  the  dishes  with- 
in the  fender. 

"Mother  is  very  late  this  morning,"  she  ob- 
served, suggestively. 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  old  gentleman,  replying 
to  the  unasked  question  in  her  voice,  "she  was 
not  nearly  ready  when  I  came  down." 

Elma  came  and  stood  beside  her  father  in  the 
full  light  of  the  window. 

"  Will  you  drive  with  me  to  the  meet  to-dav  or 
fide.'*"  she  asked,  divining  in  which  direction  lay 
her  father's  thoughts. 

"I  must  ride  to-day,"  was  the  reply,  uttered 
merrilv  with  palms  slowly  rubbed  together;  "1 
must  ride  to-day,  little  woman." 

"  But  no  breaking  away,"  she  said,  warningly, 
with  a  smile  upon  her  parted  lips;  "  no  profanity, 
and  following  the  hounds  when  you  promised 
not  to." 

The  squire  laughed  and  chuckled  with  great 
enjoyment.  It  was  a  known  fact  in  the  country- 
side that  if  the  hounds  found  while  the  squire  was 
on  horseback' within  sound,  he  would  begin  by 
swearing  in  a  round  old-fashioned  way  at  the  in- 
firmities of  age,  and  finish  by  following  almost 
as  straight  as  in  his  younger  days. 

Elma  knew  that  she  never  had  him  safely  un- 
less he  was  in  the  carriage  beside  her,  and  she 


2^2  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

was  fully  aware  that  the  old  sportsman  loved  to 
be  reminded  of  his  weakness. 

She  laughed  a  little  in  concert,  and  then  turn, 
ing  slowly  she  left  the  room  without  saying 
another  word.  Crossing  the  hall,  she  entered 
the  dining-room  with  one  hand  in  the  pocket  of 
her  dress. 

There  was  no  one  there.  The  pale  wintry  sun 
shone  through  the  tall  window  and  divided  the 
old  carpet  into  squares.  The  fire  had  not  long 
been  lighted,  so  the  wood  crackled  still,  and  there 
was  a  pleasant  odour  of  burning  resin  in  the  air. 

There  had  been  a  slight  frost,  and  the  atmosr 
phere  of  this  large  room  was  decidedly  chilly, 
but  Elma  did  not  seem  to  notice  it.  She  went  to 
the  window,  and  standing  there  drew  the  letter 
from  her  pocket.  There  was  nothing  surrepti- 
tious in  her  manner,  no  desire  of  concealment,  but 
she  had  already  obeyed  one  of  Sam  Crozier's  re- 
quests without  having  seen  inside  the  envelope. 

She  read  the  laconic  note  carefully,  and  finding 
that  the  contents  coincided  with  her  own  natural 
instinct,  she  concealed  the  paper  in  the  bosom  of 
her  dress  in  order  to  insure  greater  safety.  This 
she  did  somewhat  hurriedly  because  her  mother 
was  on  the  stairs. 

Elma  Valliant  was  inconsistent  in  her  blind 
obedience  and  bold  disregard,  shown  in  the  same 
moment.  Without  comment  she  recognized 
that  the  fact  of  her  having  received  a  letter  from 
the  singer  was  to  be  suppressed,  merely  of  course 


THE  PLOT  2)3 

because  he  said  so,  because  it  would  assist  him 
in  some  scheme  of  which  she  knew  absolutely 
nothing! 

Crozier  had  asked  her  to  trust  him  until  he 
could  explain  matters  with  his  own  lips,  and  she 
did  so.  No  question  seemed  to  arise  within  her 
mind  as  to  whether  he  was  acting  prudently  and 
for  the  best.  She  knew  that  he  had  run  some 
risk  of  misconstruction,  and  that  he  had  also 
placed  her  in  a  similar  position,  but  for  this  she 
bore  him  no  ill-will.  Indeed  she  appeared  to  find 
some  pleasure  in  sharing  the  danger,  which  is 
always  a  more  serious  matter  for  women  than  for 
men.  She  never  doubted  that  his  action  was  the 
wisest  possible  under  circumstances  which  had 
evidently  arisen  somewhat  suddenly,  and  in  a 
cheery,  confident  way  she  undertook  to  assist 
him. 

Of  course  she  could  manage  the  task  allotted 
to  her,  and  would  willingly  have  had  it  harder. 
Such  little  things  are  safe  in  a  woman's  hands. 

Thinking  over  these  and  other  subjects,  Elma 
fell  into  a  reverie,  out  of  which  she  was  presently 
awakened  by  the  clink  of  china  coming  from  the 
library. 

She  crossed  the  room  and  stood  in  front  of  the 
fireplace.  There  she  tore  up  the  envelope  which 
Sam  had  dropped  into  the  pillar-box  in  Lime 
Court  the  night  before,  and  threw  the  pieces  on 
to  the  burning  coals,  where  they  were  soon  con- 
sumed. 


234  THE  PHANTOiM  FUTURE 

"He  is  so  stupid,"  she  wliispered  to  tlie 
flames,  witii  a  gleam  in  iier  eyes.  "I  should 
like  to  write  back  to  him— a  long  letter,  on  two 
■sheets,  and  all  1  should  say  would  be:  'I  don't 
love  Tom — I  don't  love  Tom — 1  don't  love 
Tom.' " 


"It  will  give  so  much  extra  work  to  the  serv- 
ants," argued  Mrs.  Valliant,  when  the  squire 
found  that  he  had  actually  proposed  to  ask  Tom 
Valliant  down  to  stay  a  week  or  so,  including 
the  Vicarage  dance.  The  old  gentleman  did  not 
exactly  know  how  the  subject  had  cropped  up, 
or  how  it  occurred  that  he  should  make  such  a 
daring  proposal.  We  must  ask  Elma  about  that. 
However,  he  had  done  it,  and  his  genial  spirit  of 
hospitality  was  aroused.  Moreover,  the  prospect 
of  a  jolly  meet,  and  the  sight  of  a  cloudy  sky 
which  almost  spoke  of  spring  and  called  a  truce 
on  hunting,  exhilarated  him.  He  was  hopelessly 
genial  and  exalted — required  snubbing,  in  fact,  as 
old  gentlemen  sometimes  do,  and  Mrs.  Valliant 
presently  saw  to  that,  because  it  was  strictly 
within  her  department. 

"It  will  give  so  much  extra  work  to  the  serv- 
ants," she  said,  with  a  half-suppressed  sigh  of 
resignation,  as  if  the  scullery-maid's  work  were 
about  to  fall  upon  her  shoulders. 

"  I  will  get  up  early  and  polish  the  grates," 
said    the    squire,    winking    obviously  at  Elma. 


THE  PLOT  235 

There  was   the   sound,  even,  of  a  wink  in  his 
genial  voice. 

The  woman  who  had  possessed  for  twenty-five 
years  one  of  the  best  husbands  in  England, 
smiled  in  a  chilly,  heartless  manner,  and  shrugged 
her  shoulders. 

"1  think  we  can  manage  without  that,"  she 
observed,  with  great  dignity. 

The  squire  was  irrepressible.  It  was  all  owing 
to  that  light,  southwesterly  breeze,  which  has  a 
frivolous  way  of  getting  into  mens  veins. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  with  a  chuckle,  "don't  hesitate 
to  make  use  of  me.  Any  trifling  service  of  the 
description  mentioned,  you  know,  my  dear,  will 
be  a  pleasure  to  me." 

This  daring  impertinence  would  have  settled 
the  matter  finally  had  Mrs.  V^illiant  been  in- 
different respecting  Tom's  visit.  But  she  was 
not  so.  She  wanted  him  to  come,  for  he  was 
dear  to  her,  after  her  manner — the  manner  of 
a  hard  woman  who  has  never  known  the  love  of 
a  son,  which  is  quite  different  from  that  of  a 
daughter,  inasmuch  as  it  is  daring  and  often 
arbitrary.  And  it  would  almost  appear  that  a 
woman  values  love  in  ratio  to  the  greatness  of 
its  demands  and  heartlessness  of  its  subsequent 
ingratitude. 

"  I  will  write  to  him  this  morning,"  said  Mrs. 
Valliant,  with  some  condescension,  and  there  the 
matter  rested. 

Elma  hardly  seemed  to  notice  the  final  decision. 


236  •  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

She  was  occupied  with  a  collection  of  crumbs, 
for  which  a  small  feathered  tribe  was  patiently 
waiting  outside  the  window. 

"I  hope,"  she  reflected,  as  she  tapped  the 
bread-tray  with  a  knife,  "that  he  will  be  content 
with  my  share  of  this  deep  scheme.  But  .  .  . 
but  1  suppose  it  will  only  confirm  his  suspicion 
that  I  care  for  Tom." 

Two  days  later  Tom  Valliant  arrived  at  Gold- 
heath.  Elma  was  at  the  station  to  meet  him. 
She  had  driven  over  alone,  having  effected  the 
arrangement  with  some  difficulty.  But  she  was 
anxious  to  see  the  first  of  her  cousin — anxious, 
in  an  indefinite  desire  to  speak  to  him  before  any 
one  else.  She  thought  that  he  might  bring  some 
explanation  of  Crozier's  unusual  action — rendered 
more  peculiar  by  the  fact  that  the  singer  excelled 
more  in  a  masterly  stillness  than  in  moving. 
During  the  first  greeting,  however,  she  learnt 
that  Tom  knew  nothing  of  the  letter  to  which  he 
owed  his  presence  in  the  little  pony-cart  by  her 
side;  and  the  realization  of  how  much  Crozier 
had  left  to  chance  and  her  own  quick  wit  came 
as  a  shock  at  the  same  time.  Once  or  tv/ice 
already  there  had  been  occasions  on  which  it 
would  have  been  so  perilously  easy  to  make  a 
mistake.  Notably,  in  the  first  instance,  on  the 
receipt  of  the  letter;  in  the  second,  on  greeting 
her  cousin  at  the  station. 

Nevertheless,  Tom  Valliant  had  brought  the 
explanation  with  him.     It  was -written  round  his 


THE  PLOT  237 

eyes,  and  in  the  lines  tliat  appeared  near  his 
clean  shaven  lips  when  his  face  was  in  repose. 
She  did  not  read,  but  unconsciously  touched 
upon  it. 

"I  will  not  inquire,"  she  said  merrily,  "what 
time  you  went  to  bed  last  night,  or  whether  you 
went  to  bed  at  all.  It  may  be  a  delicate  subject, 
but  your  appearance  might,  in  mixed  society, 
lead  to  unpleasant  questions." 

He  glanced  at  her  keenly.  It  was  a  mere  flash 
of  his  quick  eyes,  unnoticed  by  her  in  the  ab- 
sorption of  rounding  a  sharp  corner  with  a  home- 
going  pony.     Then  he  laughed. 

"  When  a  jaded,  overworked  son  of  toil  comes 
down  from  the  restless  city,"  he  said,  with 
dramatic  gravity,  "is  it  kind  to  presume  upon 
rosy  cheeks  and  a  digestion  untouched  by  mid- 
night oil — to  cast  his  complexion  in  his  face,  so 
to  speak,  and  to  attribute  a  becoming  pallor  to 
the  worst  possible  causes  ?  Now  you  would  not 
imagine,  I  suppose,  that  I  attended  a  Young 
Men's  Christian  lecture  last  night — would  you  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  answered  severely,  "  I  would  not." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  great  resig- 
nation. 

"It  is  no  good,"  he  said  meekly,  "talking  to 
you,  if  you  begin  by  doubting  a  hitherto  spotless 
veracity." 

Thus  they  began  and  thus  they  went  on  during 
the  few  days  that  followed.  Both  seemed  to  be 
under  a  nervous  apprehension  of  some  sort.    Both 


2^8  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

were  terribly  afraid  of  becoming  grave — of  treat- 
ing any  subject  seriously. 

On  the  surface,  however,  .they  were  both  in 
excellent  spirits,  and  superficial  things  are  often 
deeper  than  we  reckon. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

FLOWERS 

By  good  fortune  Crozier  succeeded  in  carrying 
out  his  plans  for  tlie  evening  of  Mrs.  Gibb's 
ball  at  Goldheath.  He  sang  his  two  songs, 
received  his  applause  with  the  usual  grave  bow, 
and  rushed  off  to  Waterloo  Station  in  the  quickest 
hansom  obtainable. 

There  was  a  slight  delay  at  Covent  Garden, 
where  he  called  for  some  flowers  ordered  and 
selected  a  few  hours  earlier;  nevertheless  he 
caught  the  train,  and  at  five  minutes  to  seven 
stood  beneath  the  broad  porch  of  Goldheath 
Court.  From  the  cold  gusty  night  he  passed 
into  the  cheery,  thickly-carpeted  hall,  where  a 
fire  burnt  ruddily  with  many  a  gleam  upon 
ancient  flint-lock  and  holster  pistol  suspended 
upon  the  walls. 

In  the  centre,  near  the  table,  stood  Elma.  She 
had  just  run  downstairs,  swinging  gloves  and 
fan  in  her  hand,  and  was  consequently  breathless. 

"So  you  have  done  it,"  she  gasped,  as  she 
held  out  her  hand  with  a  smile  of  welcome. 

"Yes,"  he   answered,    quickly   removing   his 
glove  before  shaking  hands.     "I  knew  I  could 
manage  it.     There  was  really  plenty  of  time." 
239 


240  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

He  laid  the  flowers  on  the  table  previous  to  re- 
moving his  thick  coat,  and  Elma  looked  su- 
premely unconscious  of  their  presence. 

"I  hope  the  flowers  are  right,"  he  said,  glanc- 
ing back  over  his  shoulder  as  he  turned  to  hang 
up  his  coat  and  hat.  The  servant  had  vanished 
with  his  bag  a  moment  before. 

Elma  took  up  the  informal  bouquet  which  he  had 
thrown  down  somewhat  recklessly,  and  raised  it 
to  her  face.     She  changed  colour  suddenly. 

"They     .     .     .     are   lovely,"  she   murmured. 

He  had  come  back  into  the  middle  of  the  room 
and  was  standing  before  her,  looking  down  at 
the  flowers  with  a  critical  wisdom. 

"I  suppose  white  flowers  are  always  safe .? '' 
he  said  with  what  seemed  to  her  forced  careless- 
ness. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  rather  vaguely,  as  if  she 
had  not  caught  the  meaning  of  his  words;  "yes, 
I  should  think  so." 

"I  mean  that  they  will  go  with  almost  any 
dress." 

"  Oh  yes — almost  any  dress." 

"I  thought  so,"  he  said,  earnestly,  as  if  a  load 
had  been  lifted  from  his  mind — as  if  one  of  the 
unanswered  questions  of  his  existence  had  found 
a  reply  at  last. 

He  had  removed  his  coat,  laid  aside  his  hat, 
and  pulled  down  his  waistcoat.  There  was  noth- 
ing to  detain  them  any  longer  in  the  hall,  but  still 
they  lingered. 


FLOWERS  241 

"  Thank  you  very  much  .  .  ."  she  began, 
but  he  stopped  her  by  laying  his  hand  hurriedly 
upon  her  arm,  pressing  harder  than  he  was 
aware  of. 

"They  are  not  from  me,"  he  interrupted, 
speaking  rapidly;  "I  brought  them  for  Tom^ 
by  Tom's  order,  I  mean — for  him  to  give  to  you." 

She  half  turned  away,  burying  her  face  among 
the  white  flowers  with  a  nod  signifying  that  she 
understood.  Then  she  looked  up  into  his  face 
with  a  smile. 

"  Thank  you  very  much,  then,"  she  said,  "for 
bringing  them.  I  may  thank  you,  I  suppose,  for 
having  taken  some  trouble  in  the  matter,  although 
1  must  express  my  gratitude  to  Tom  for  having 
thought  of  it." 

He  smiled  in  response,  but  there  was  a  singu- 
lar expression  upon  his  lips  which  failed  to  coin- 
cide with  the  perfectly  natural  light  in  his  eyes. 

"It  was  no  trouble,"  he  said,  indifferently, 
making  at  the  same  time  a  distinct  movement 
toward  the  drawing-room  door.  She  could  not 
but  obey  his  suggestion. 

"I  expected  that  Tom  would  have  told  you 
about  the  flowers,"  he  said,  as  he  followed  her 
toward  the  drawing-room,  which  was  at  the 
other  end  of  a  passage;  "and  my  expectation 
was  more  or  less  confirmed  by  the  fact  that  you 
came  downstairs  without  any," 

"1  never  put  my  flowers  on  until  the  last  mo- 
ment," she  observed,  in  a  tone  of  vast  experi- 


242  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

ence,  "otherwise  they  would  be  dead  before  the 
evening  was  half  over." 

He  made  no  answer,  and  they  passed  into  the 
drawing-room  in  silence. 

"1  should  like  to  know,"  she  reflected  rapidly, 
"as  a  mere  matter  of  curiosity,  who  really 
thought  of  it — whose  idea  it  really  was  to  bring 
flowers  down  from  London." 

"I  wonder,"  he  meditated,  "whether  she  has 
other  flowers  upstairs,  or  if  she    .     .     ." 

Here  Mrs.  Valliant  came  forward  with  out- 
stretched hand  and  a  few  formal  words  of  wel- 
come. 

A  few  moments  later  Tom  appeared.  Elma 
held  up  the  flowers,  which  she  was  in  the  act  of 
placing  in  a  bowl  of  water  in  the  darkest  and 
coolest  corner  of  the  drawing-room. 

"These  delicate  attentions,  iiion  cousin,"  she 
said  gaily,  "are  overpowering." 

"  Ah!  "  he  exclaimed,  as  if  he  had  forgotten  all 
about  them,  or  as  if  the  matter  were  really  of 
small  interest — "  Ah — vegetables." 

He  crossed  the  room  and  sniffed  at  them. 

"The  delicacy  of  the  attention  is  not  the  only 
thing  about  them  which  will  be  overpowering 
before  this  entertainment  is  over,  I  am  thinking. 
How  are  you,  Samuel  ?  Why  did  you  bring  such 
smelly  ones  ?" 

"Smelly  ones!"  echoed  Elma,  indignantly; 
"  they  are  lovely.  There  is  nothing  so  sweet  on 
earth  as  stephanotis." 


FLOWERS  243 

Tom  laughed  derisively. 

"Give  me,"  he  said,  addressing  Crozier  with 
tragically  outstretched  arm,  "a  flower  that  has 
no  smell — the  humble  daisy,  the  azure  corn- 
flower, the  sustaining  cauliflower." 

"I  am  afraid,"  answered  Crozier  with  perfect 
gravity,  "that  I  have  not  got  one  at  the  mo- 
ment." 

Only  Tom  remained  grave.  He  shrugged  his 
shoulders  with  a  great  show  of  disgust. 

"The  man,"  he  muttered,  "has  no  poetry  in 
him."  And  turning  sharply  round  he  arranged 
his  tie  with  the  aid  of  a  Venetian  looking-glass 
suspended  above  the  mantelpiece. 

"But,  Tom,"  said  Elma  presently,  taking  up  the 
unfinished  argument,  "do  you  mean  seriously 
to  say  that  you  prefer  flowers  without  smell  ?" 

"I  do,"  he  said.  "There  is  nothing  so  de- 
pressing as  the  smell  of  white  tlowers.  Mind  I 
like  it,  but  it  depresses  me.  It  is  the  sentiment 
of  the  thing,  I  am  afraid.  Were  1  a  schoolgirl 
the  odour  of  flowers  would  make  me  think  of 
the  moon,  the  shimmering  sea,  soft  twilight 
hours,  the  midnight  song  of  the  cucumber — the 
nightingale,  I  mean — and  similar  unsatisfactory 
things.  Being  a  man,  I  am  consumed  with  a 
great  desire  to  smoke  instead.  Perhaps  it  is  a 
mere  matter  of  past  association.  1  never  thought 
of  that  before.  Sam  always  wears  a  spray  of 
stephanotis  when  he  can  get  it,  which  no  doubt 
accounts  for  the  whole  business." 


244  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

He  laughed  and  looked  toward  Crozier.  Elma 
laughed  also,  but  chanced  to  look  in  exactly  the 
opposite  direction.  The  singer  met  his  friend's 
eyes  and  smiled  obediently.  He  had  been  talk- 
ing with  Mrs.  Valliant,  and  was  without  the  least 
knowledge  of  what  he  was  expected  to  smile  at 
— but  that  did  not  matter  much. 

Then  the  dinner-bell  sounded  through  the 
house,  and  the  squire  came  into  the  room,  groan- 
ing and  holding  his  back,  but  smiling  genially 
nevertheless.  He  was  a  truly  hospitable  man  in 
the  good  old-fashioned  manner;  loved  to  see 
strange  faces  round  his  table — more  especially 
young  faces.  This  evening  he  was  resplendent 
in  dress-clothes  of  an  earlier  date,  with  onyx 
buttons  on  the  waistcoat,  and  three  honest  rubies 
on  his  broad  and  manly  breast.  The  groan 
meant  nothing,  and  in  nowise  disquieted  the 
ladies.  They  knew  that  it  was  only  geniality, 
which  usually  takes  the  form  of  a  noise  of  some 
description,  and  a  painless  grunt  is  preferable  to 
the  aggravating  drawing-in  of  breath  through 
closed  teeth,  which  is  a  more  common  sign. 

"Ah!"  he  exclaimed,  holding  out  his  broad 
brown  hand,  "  Sam,  my  boy.  Glad  to  see  you  I 
The  singer,  eh  ?  The  Royal  minstrel — ha,  ha, 
ha  !    How  did  you  get  on  }  " 

"Splendidly,  thanks!" 

"Congratulate  you,  my  boy!  Congratulate 
you!  Only  wish  your  good  father  was  here  to 
do  the  same,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  squaring 


FLOWERS  245 

his  arms  and  pulling  down  his  waistcoat  with  a 
cheery  jerk. 

"  He  doesn't  look  as  if  he  were  fresh  from  the 
presence  of  Royalty,  does  he  ?  "  suggested  Tom, 
"except  that  his  hair  is  a  tritle  ruffled  on  this 
side." 

The  singer  passed  his  hand  scientifically  over 
his  crisply  curled  head. 

"That,"  he  answered  readily,  "is  where  I  tore 
it  when  the  cab-horse  slid  down  Wellington 
Street  on  its  shoulder." 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha!"  laughed  the  squire,  tailing  off 
apoplectically  into  subsidiary  chuckles,  at  the  end 
of  which  he  looked  suddenly  grave  and  turned  to 
Crozier. 

"Must  congratulate  you  also,"  he  said,  in  the 
confidential  manner  of  a  stage  aside,  "  upon  that 
other  matter — the  money,  eh  }  Don't  invest  it  in 
a  Dock  Company.  You  needn't  be  afraid  of 
horseflesh,  but  avoid  the  turf — sailors  never  learn 
the  ropes  there." 

Crozier's  reply  was  lost  in  the  rustle  of  Mrs. 
Valliant's  silks  as  she  moved  austerely  toward  the 
door. 

"  Elma,  my  dear,"  said  the  old  gentleman, 
with  a  preliminary  groan,  "1  am  afraid  I  shall 
not  be  able -to  have  that  polka  with  you  to-night; 
my  lumbago     .     .     ." 

"But  you  must,  papa;  I  never  let  my  partners 
off  like  that.  Lumbago  or  no  lumbago,  once  the 
name  is  on  my  programme  there  is  no  turning 


246  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

back.  Besides,  I  heard  you  running  downstairs 
just  now  when  we  were  in  the  drawing-room." 

There  was  a  break  in  the  conversation,  while 
all  heads  were  solemnly  bowed  over  the  table, 
and  the  squire's  shirt-front  bulged  audibly. 

"Thank  God!"  observed  the  old  fellow,  rev- 
erently— the  briefest  of  brief  graces,  which  never 
failed  to  make  Tom  smile. 

"My  dear  child,"  he  continued  in  the  same 
breath,  with  twinkling  eyes,  "  I  am  seriously  ill. 
It  came  on  suddenly,  with  a  sort  of  click,  when 
I  was  twisting  round  to  try  and  let  out  the  strap 
at  the  back  of  my  dress    .     .     ." 

"Don't  you  take  soup,  Mr.  Crozier?"  inquired 
Mrs.  Valliant  suddenly,  with  a  sharp  glance  at 
each  of  her  servants  in  turn,  just  to  see  whether 
their  sensitive  nerves  had  been  affected. 

The  squire  finished  his  remark  by  a  compre- 
hensive and  very  evident  wink  over  his  soup- 
spoon. 

Tom  Valliant  was  singularly  jolly  that  evening, 
and  his  cheeks  had  a  faint  pink  tinge,  not  in 
blotches,  but  evenly  and  all  over.  The  dark 
rings  round  his  eyes  had  vanished.  Evidently 
the  quiet  country  life  of  Goldheath  suited  him 
admirably.  He  was  also  in  excellent  spirits,  and 
talked  almost  incessantly,  while  the  squire 
laughed  and  held  his  back  with  both  hands. 

It  was  under  the  cover  of  a  brilliant  sally,  at 
which  every  one  laughed,  that  Elma  spoke  a  few 
words  under  her  breath,  without  looking  toward 


■     FLOWERS  247 

any  one  in  particular;  indeed  her  eyes  were  low- 
ered to  her  plate. 

"  I  hope,"  were  the  words,  "  that  you  are  con- 
tent with  my  share  in  the  plot." 

Samuel  Crozier  was  next  to  her.  He  glanced 
in  her  direction,  sideways,  along  the  table-cloth 
toward  her  hands,  but  said  nothing.  A  few 
minutes  later  an  opportunity  occurred,  and  he 
replied  — 

"I  never  doubted,"  almost  in  a  whisper  and 
ambiguously,  but  she  understood. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

DANGER 

As  Samuel  Crozier  bowed  over  Mrs.  Gibb's 
chubby  hand,  he  saw  William  Holdsworth  at  the 
other  end  of  the  room.  The  sailor  was  no 
dancer,  but  he  invariably  accepted  invitations, 
and  really  made  himself  very  useful  to  his  hostess 
in  talking  to  elderly  ladies  when  he  could  not  find 
a  young  one  without  a  partner. 

Elma's  programme  was  much  in  request,  and 
Crozier  saw  that  Holdsworth  did  not  ask  her  to 
sit  out  a  dance  with  him.  As  far  as  he  could 
judge,  indeed,  he  concluded  that  they  did  not 
speak  to  each  other,  more  than  a  few  formal 
words  of  greeting,  during  the  entire  evening. 
From  this  he  surmised  that  something  had  taken 
place — something  which  saved  him  from  the 
necessity  of  warning  Elma  against  his  old  ship- 
mate. 

Presently  the  two  men  passed  close  to  each 
other  in  a  tiny  room,  full  of  people  partaking 
noisily  and  merrily  of  tea  and  coffee. 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you,"  said  Crozier  in  an 
undertone,  after  they  had  nodded  casually  as 
slight  acquaintances. 

Holdsworth  looked  uncomfortable  for  a  second. 

"Crozier  is  such  an  extraordinary  fellow,"  he 
248 


DANGER  249 

reflected,  "for  hearing  confidences.  I  wonder  if 
Elma  lias  told  him." 

He  need  have  had  no  such  fear.  Elma  was  in 
her  own  estimation  singularly  capable  of  taking 
care  of  herself.  She  had  an  entire  reliance  in  her 
own  strength  of  purpose,  hidden,  it  may  be,  be- 
neath smiles  and  a  certain  coquetry,  but  existing 
nevertheless,  and  only  betrayed  by  that  little 
square  chin  and  an  occasional  glance  of  her 
changeable  eyes.  In  confidences  she  never  in- 
dulged, and  of  herself  she  rarely  talked.  There 
was  one  person  to  whom  she  never  spoke  on 
matters  concerning  herself,  and  that  man  was 
Samuel  Crozier. 

Holdsworth  looked  keenly  into  his  former  offi- 
cer's face.  The  old  "quarter-deck"  expression 
was  not  there,  and  the  sailor  augured  from  its 
absence  that  there  was  nothing  very  disagreeable 
hanging  over  his  unfortunate  head. 

"Will  it  take  long?"  he  inquired,  audaciously 
smiling. 

Crozier  looked  at  his  programme  before  reply- 
ing. 

"Number  seventeen  is  a  schottische,"  he  said, 
in  a  quietly  undeniable  manner.  "I  shall  not  be 
dancing  it.     Will  you  keep  yourself  free  ?" 

"Yes." 

Holdsworth  moved  away,  looking  grave,  while 
Crozier  turned  to  greet  an  asthmatic  old  parson 
who  had  known  his  father.  The  sailor  again 
felt  a  sudden   misgiving — a  vague   sense,  as  it 


:23o  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

were,  of  discomfort— as  if  some  new  trouble  were 
at  hand.  But  presently  he  threw  this  off,  and  be- 
came the  merriest  of  the  merry.  He  lived  for  the 
present  to  an  extraordinary  degree,  and  number 
one  had  just  begun ;  number  seventeen,  the  schot- 
tische,  was  a  long  way  off. 

At  times  during  the  evening  that  disagreeable 
possibility  of  Crozier's  having  heard  of  the  little 
scene  in  a  conservatory  some  weeks  before  sug- 
gested itself  to  the  sailor,  but  he  soon  dismissed 
it  with  easy  confidence.  Tom  Valliant's  manner 
to  himself  was  friendly  in  the  extreme,  which  in- 
cident closed  the  most  likely  channel  through 
which  the  information  might  have  passed. 

The  local  dancing  men  found  that  Elma's  pro- 
gramme had  been  seriously  tampered  with  before 
she  entered  the  room — the  initials  "S.  C'and 
"T,  V."  occurring  alternately  in  brotherly  unity 
at  short  intervals  from  top  to  bottom.  Tom  Val- 
liant  was  a  very  fair  dancer,  but  incorrigibly  lazy. 
He  never  danced  from  the  first  bar  of  the  music 
to  the  last,  as  did  his  friend.  Twice  round,  and 
find  a  seat,  was  the  principle  upon  which  he 
acted.  Elma  had  long  ago  ceased  to  draw  his  at- 
tention to  the  laziness  of  this  proceeding.  She 
had  divined  that,  much  as  he  loved  and  invited 
chaff,  all  remarks  upon  the  limits  of  his  endurance 
as  regarded  dancing  were  unwelcome.  In  after 
years  she  looked  back  with  thankfulness  upon  the 
instinctive  feeling  which  withheld  her  tongue  on 
this  point. 


DANGER  2sr 

Sam  Crozier  used  to  s:iy  in  self-abuse  that  he 
was  an  old  stager — a  supper  bachelor — and  his 
friends  believed  or  disbelieved  him  as  they  liked. 
He  only  had  four  dances  with  Elma  scribbled  on 
her  engagement-card  hastily,  but  they  were  the 
four  best  waltzes  there.  Thus,  the  first  was  imme- 
diately before  the  Lancers,  which  he  knew  Elma 
would  not  dance,  and  by  this  simple  device  he 
secured  an  opportunity  of  giving  her  the  explana- 
tion he  knew,  by  the  glance  of  her  eyes,  she  was 
awaiting. 

They  danced  the  waltz  without  speaking  many 
words.  Crozier  never  talked  much  once  the  mu- 
sic had  begun,  and  they  knew  each  other  well 
enough  to  ignore  the  politer  usages  of  society. 
As  the  music  slackened  with  chordal  signs  of  a 
finale,  Elma  made  a  tiny  movement  which  he  de- 
tected at  once.  It  was  the  almost  unconscious 
signal  of  a  wish  to  stop  and  get  away  before  the 
crowd.  They  both  knew  the  house  well.  Elma 
had  run  about,  upstairs  and  downstairs,  since  she 
could  run  at  all,  while  Crozier  was  born  in  the 
large  room  above  the  drawing-room. 

And  so  he  led  her  up  the  broad  shallow  steps 
with  her  fingers  resting  on  his  arm,  as  he  had  led 
her,  hand  in  hand,  twenty  years  before.  There 
was  a  broad  alcove  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  and 
here  they  found  a  sofa.  As  they  seated  them- 
selves a  sudden  rush  of  voices  in  the  hall  beneath 
told  of  a  breathless  multitude  seeking  rest.  The 
dance  was  over. 


252  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

Crozier  began  at  once  in  his  usual  straightfor- 
ward way. 

"I  wrote  to  you,"  he  said,  "because  1  wanted 
to  get  Tom  away  from  London.  He  was  regu- 
larly out  of  sorts — required  a  change,  you  under- 
stand." 

"And  so  you  thought  of  Goldheath  ?" 

"And  so  1  thought  of  Goldheath,"  he  replied, 
absently,  for  he  was  striving  to  reach  the  mean- 
ing of  her  tone,  which  was  not  quite  natural. 
There  was  a  subtle  significance  in  it  which  he 
failed  to  catch. 

"Where  else  could  he — or  rather  would  he — 
have  gone.?"  said  the  singer,  still  striving  to  di- 
vine her  thoughts. 

She  turned  toward  him  with  a  smile. 

"Nowhere,  of  course,"  she  replied. 

Nevertheless  Crozier  conceived  the  strange  idea 
that  Tom  Valliant's  visit  had  for  some  reason  been 
distasteful  to  Elma.  He  could  not  be  expected 
to  read  a  woman's  whim.  The  true  reason  of 
her  slight  displeasure  lay  so  deeply  hidden  from 
his  eyes,  and  he  was  so  utterly  devoid  of  vanity, 
that  he  never  suspected  what  it  was,  until  the 
knowledge  was  forced  upon  him  later. 

"1  hope,"  he  said,  "that  it  was  not  inconven- 
ient, but  I  was  really  frightened  for  the  moment. 
Tom  is  not  strong,  and  the  life  he  leads  in  town 
is  not  such  as  he  ought  to  lead.  I  was  scared  by 
the  thought  (suddenly  thrust  upon  me  by  some 
one  else),  that  I  was  more  or  less  responsible. 


DANGER  253 

Perhaps  I  lost  my  head  a  little,  for  1  was  alone,, 
and  it  was  late  at  night." 

Elma  laughed  suddenly  in  a  peculiar,  impatient 
way. 

"It  would  be  so  like  you  to  lose  your  head," 
she  said,  sarcastically,  "  would  it  not  ?  " 

His  deep-set  eyes  rested  for  a  moment  on  her 
profile.  She  was  looking  straight  in  front  of  her, 
with  her  two  hands  resting  upon  her  lap.  Her 
lips  were  slightly  apart,  and  the  expression  of  her 
face  seemed  to  demand  an  answer  to  the  question 
just  asked. 

"Perhaps,"  he  suggested,  with  semi-comic 
apology,  "it  requires  more  than  I  possess." 

"I  should  think  it  does,"  she  said,  in  a  ban- 
tering tone.  Then  she  added,  quite  seriously, 
"  It  is  very  good  of  you  to  interest  yourself 
so  much  in  Torn.  We  were  very  glad  to  see 
him." 

The  extreme  conventionality  of  her  remark 
conveyed  to  him  exactly  the  opposite  meaning  tO' 
that  which  she  intended.  He  thought  that  it  was 
assumed,  whereas  it  was  very  natural. 

"He  is  much  better  for  the  change;  I  see  a 
great  improvement  in  his  appearance,"  he  ob- 
served, carelessly,  while  he  attempted  to  intro- 
duce the  upper  button  of  his  glove  into  its  hole. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "I  think  he  is  better. 
Goldheath  has  done  him  good." 

He  deliberately  turned  and  looked  into  her 
face.     She  bore  the  scrutiny  without  changing- 


234  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURb 

countenance,  but  her  eyes  were  a  trifle  fixed  in 
their  expression,  while  her  chin  was  thrust  for- 
ward. It  was  a  wonderful  thing  how  well  he 
knew  her. 

"Elma,"  he  said,  "  Elma,  I  am  afraid  I  am  a 
muddler.  I  have  done  something  stupid.  Do 
you  not  know  me  well  enough  to  tell  me  what  it 
is  ?  Surely  it  is  enough  to  say  that  we  clambered 
together  on  to  this  same  sofa  twenty  years 
ago.  We  ran  about  in  these  same  old  passages 
hand  in  hand,  and  there  was  nothing  between  us 
then.  Did  my  letter  come  inopportunely,  or 
has  it  vexed  you?  Or  do  you  think  that  1 
should  have  minded  my  business,  and  allowed 
Tom  to  manage  his,  or  mismanage  it,  as  he 
thought  fit  ?  " 

"No,"  she  protested,  "I  thought  nothing  of 
that  sort.  I  was  glad  to  get  your  letter,  and  no 
one  has  seen  it — no  one  saw  it — but  myself." 

"Then  you  did  not  want  Tom  at  Goldheath 
just  now .?  I  forced  him  upon  you  at  a  wrong 
time." 

"Not  at  all.     No     .     .     .     but    .     .     ." 

She  stopped  with  a  little  awkward  laugh.  She 
w^as  slowly  twining  and  intertwining  her  gloved 
fingers,  and  she  swayed  a  little  away  from  him 
as  if  to  get  farther  from  a  proximitive  influence 
which  was  becoming  too  strong  for  her. 

"But  .  .  .  what?"  he  asked,  in  a  meas- 
ured voice,  which  seemed  to  be  the  result  of 
some  effort  over  himself. 


DANGER  25^ 

There  was  a  pause  of  some  moments.  The 
Lancers  were  in  full  swing  downstairs,  so  that 
the  upper  part  of  the  house  was  theirs  alone. 
The  music  was  almost  overwhelmed  by  the 
shuffling  of  feet  and  the  buzz  of  raised  voices. 

"Oh — nothing,"  she  said,  suddenly  throw- 
ing herself  back  in  the  seat,  and  looking  at 
him  with  a  determined  little  smile  full  of  de- 
fiance. 

"That  is  right,"  he  said,  calmly,  "don't  tell 
me.  It  is  much  better  not.  There  is  nothing 
that  one  regrets  sooner,  and  more,  than  unwill- 
ing confidences.  There  are  so  many  things 
which  are  better  left  untold.  This  is  one  of 
them,  no  doubt.  Some  day  you  will  abuse  me 
for  having  been  weak  for  a  moment.  I  should 
not  have  tried  to  make  you  tell  me." 

He  spoke  rapidly  and  with  evident  relief,  as  if 
some  hidden  danger  had  just  been  averted.  But 
he  could  not  divert  his  thoughts  at  once  from  the 
question,  and  sought  to  excuse  himself  for  the 
blunder  which  he  knew  nothing  of 

"1  cannot  always  understand  Tom,"  he  said,, 
tentatively,  "he  is  so  variable.  At  times  he  is 
quite  serious  and  amenable  to  reason,  and  sud- 
denly he  will  change — laughs  at  everything,  and 
is  apparently  perfectly  reckless  of  consequences." 

"You  mean,"  she  suggested,  "that  he  does 
not  dream  of  misconstruction  or  deliberate  mis- 
conception. He  never  thinks  that  people  may 
either  heedlessly  or  purposely  put  his  actions  in 


2^6  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

such  a  light  as  to  render  their  appearance  much 
worse  than  it  should  be." 

Crozier  knew  now  that  she  had  heard  some- 
thing of  what  Syra  had  reoorted  as  the  current 
gossip  of  St.  Antony's.  It  was  easy  enough  to 
trace  this,  in  imagination,  from  Walter  Varden  to 
Holdsworth,  and  from  Holdsworth,  either  directly 
or  indirectly,  to  Elma.  The  story  would  most 
assuredly  not  have  lost  weight  in  transmission, 
so  he  faced  it  squarely,  as  was  his  wont. 

"You  must  not,"  he  said,  "on  that  very 
account  believe  all  that  you  hear.  People  are 
so  apt  to  add  a  few  graphic  touches  to  stories 
that  pass  through  their  hands.  In  this  matter, 
Elma,  you  must  believe  me  before  any  one  else — 
you  have  no  other  course  but  this.  Tom  is  as 
good  and  upright  and  as  true  a  gentleman  as  any 
man  in  this  house.  Some  people  are  beyond  the 
influence  of  association,  and  I  think  he  is  one  of 
them.  He  can  associate  with  .  .  .  shady  char- 
acters, let  us  call  them,  and  never  be  the  worse 
for  it.  But  what  I  do  not  understand  is  why  he 
does  it.  These  men  are  no  companions  for  him. 
I  am  certain  he  despises  them,  and  yet  he  de- 
liberately chooses  them  for  his  friends.  He 
knows  that  I  could  help  him  to  become  ac- 
quainted with  a  better  class  of  men  altogether — 
intellectual  fellows,  who  are  doing  good  in  the 
world  both  for  themselves  and  others;  but  he 
prefers  St.  Antony's  students  and  their  hang- 
ers-on.    It  would  almost  seem  as  if  for  some 


DANGER  237 

deliberate  purpose  he  were  misrepresenting  him- 
self." 

"And  other  people,"  added  Elma,  with  gentle 
significance. 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  slow,  grave  smile. 
She  raised  her  eyes  to  his,  and  there  was  a  faint 
note  of  warning  in  her  voice  as  she  repeated  the 
words  — 

"And  other  people." 

He  could  not  pretend  to  mistake  her  meaning, 
and  he  was  chivalrous  enough  to  resist  the  temp- 
tation of  compelling  her  to  make  it  more  obvi- 
ous. 

"Yes,"  he  murmured,  indifferently,  "I  suppose 
so."  And  with  raised  eyebrows  signified  that  it' 
did  not  matter  much. 

"You  think,"  she  asked,  "that  it  does  not 
matter  ?  " 

"  Not  much,"  was  the  reply,  "and  not  at  all  to 
Tom.     It  was  of  him  that  we  were  speaking." 

She  ignored  this  broad  hint. 

"It  does  matter,"  she  said  gravely.  "It  mat- 
ters a  great  deal  to  every  man,  however  inde- 
pendent and    .     .     .     and  unselfish  he  may  be." 

"Then  you  did  not  believe  it.?"  he  inquired, 
rashly. 

"It    .     .     .?"     she  echoed,  interrogatively. 

"What  you  heard,"  he  explained. 

She  reflected  for  some  moments,  recalling  all 
that  had  passed  between  them  on  this  subject. 
Then  she  turned  her  head  toward  him  with  a 


238  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

little  inquisitorial  air,  keeping  her  eyes,  however, 
fixed  upon  the  carpet. 

"How  do  you  i<now  that  1  have  heard  any- 
thing?" 

"I  foresaw  that  you  would.  Certain  gossip 
had,  1  found  some  time  ago,  got  into  a  channel 
which  would  ultimately  lead  it  to  you." 

"And  you  made  no  attempt  to  stop  it  ?" 

"No — that  would  have  made  matters  worse." 

She  studied  the  flowers  painted  on  her  fan 
with  critical  interest  for  a  moment,  and  without 
ceasing  her  contemplation  said,  in  an  even, 
measured  way  — 

"It  may  be  of  some  small  interest  to  you  to 
learn  that  I  believed — nothing." 

"Thank  you." 

"Tell  me,"  she  said  presently,  as  if  reading 
the  words  upon  the  painted  silk;  "tell  me — that 
is,  if  you  wish  to — who  was  the  person  who 
suddenly  impressed  upon  you  the  fact  that  you 
were  more  or  less  responsible  for  Tom  ?  " 

"Syra." 

A  little  nod,  almost  imperceptible,  betrayed  to 
Crozier  that  his  companion's  suspicions  had  been 
confirmed. 

"1  do  not  understand  Syra." 

"  1  do  not  imagine  that  Syra  understands  her- 
self," he  replied,  guardedly. 

She  half  turned  her  head  toward  him,  and  her 
lips  were  ready  parted  with  a  question,  when  she 
seemed  to  recollect  herself,  and  with  an  uncon- 


DANGER  259 

scious  assumption  of  dignity  she  closed  her  fan 
slowly  and  carefully. 

"I  wish,"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  little  sigh, 
"that  Tom  would  assume  the  responsibilities  of 
human  life.  1  am  sure  that  he  is  very  clever. 
He  could  be  a  great  artist  if  only  he  set  his  heart 
upon  it.  There  is  nothing  so  discouraging  and 
so  sad  as  to  see  people  miss  success;  to  see  it 
within  their  grasp,  and  yet  to  see  them  fail  for 
some  reason,  for  the  lack  of  some  little  requisite." 

There  was  a  great  movement  upon  the  stairs 
and  in  the  hall  beneath  them.  The  next  waltz 
had  begun. 

"That,"  he  said  with  a  deprecating  smile,  as 
he  stood  up  and  offered  her  his  arm,  "  is  life — to 
see  success  just  in  front  and  never  to  reach  it." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE   RECKONING   UP 

HoLDSWORTH  and  Crozier  met  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs  when  the  schottische — number  seventeen 
upon  the  programme — was  started.  For  a  mo- 
ment they  stood  there — two  sturdy,  typical  Eng- 
lishmen. One  fair,  blue-eyed  and  merry;  the 
other  darker,  with  crisp  curled  hair,  and  thought- 
ful, deep-set  eyes  of  an  observant  habit;  both 
straight  and  upright,  with  ready  hands,  and  a 
peculiar  carriage  of  the  head. 

"My  dance,  1  believe,"  said  Holdsworth, 
audaciously. 

Crozier  nodded  his  head  with  a  faint  smile,  and 
looked  round  him  slowly.  They  were  practically 
alone  in  that  house  full  of  people,  the  stairs  being 
only  used  for  a  resting-place  during  the  crush 
between  the  dances. 

"Let  us  sit  down,"  said  the  singer,  indicating 
the  bottom  step. 

And  so  they  sat  there  with  elevated  knees  held 
apart,  and  clasped  hands  between,  in  a  similarity 
of  pose  which  was  remarkable. 

Beneath  his  lowered  lashes  Holdsworth  glanced 
furtively  at  his  companion,  waiting. 

"1  have  news  for  you,  Holdsworth,"  said  the 
singer,  after  a  moment. 

260 


THE  RECKONING  UP  261 

The  sailor  clasped  his  hand  round  his  beard, 
making  the  golden  hair  rustle. 

"Something  disagreeable,  I  bet,"  he  said,  with 
assumed  indifference. 

"I  do  not  know  .  .  .  whether  it  will  prove 
disagreeable  or  not.     it  is  the  news  of  a  death." 

"A  death!"  echoed  Holdsworth.  "Emily 
Harland.^"  he  added  interrogatively,  after  a 
pause. 

"Yes." 

Holdsworth  remained  silent  for  some  mo- 
ments. Then  he  heaved  a  sigh — the  easy  light 
sigh  of  an  utterly  selfish  man. 

"She  always  was  delicate,"  he  remarked  in  a 
resigned  spirit. 

Crozier  turned  deliberately  and  looked  at  him 
as  one  looks  at  a  curious  and  rare  insect. 

"She  died  of  consumption,"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  answered  the  other  in  the  same  cool 
way,  "it  was  in  the  family." 

Crozier  rose  from  his  seat.  He  did  not  even 
take  the  trouble  to  show  his  disgust. 

"That  is  my  news,"  he  said,  curtly.  He  was 
about  to  move  away  when  he  looked  down  at  his 
companion,  and  their  eyes  met.  Then  he  stayed. 
Holdsworth's  face  was  haggard.  It  was  no 
longer  the  face  of  a  reckless  ne'er-do-weel,  de- 
void of  scruple,  free  from  remorse.  In  a  mo- 
ment the  features  had  changed.  He  who  sat  there 
and  looked  up  into  Crozier's  strong,  peaceful  face 
was  a  hunted  man,  with  haggard,  scared,  weary 


262  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

eyes,  the  victim  of  persistent  ill-fortune.  The 
singer  had  a  strong  man's  true  softness  of  heart. 
He  had  seen  that  look  on  the  sailor's  face  before, 
and  had  never  yet  turned  away  from  it.  He  now 
stood  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  with  his  hand  upon 
the  oak  balustrade — simply  stood  there  and  said 
nothing;  but  his  presence  had  a  comforting  sense 
of  sympathy  such  as  draws  us  to  certain  persons 
in  time  of  trouble. 

The  gay,  rattling  music  rang  in  their  ears;  be- 
neath their  feet  the  floor  vibrated  incessantly. 

At  last  Holdsworth  spoke  in  a  low,  unsteady 
voice. 

"When  you  tirst  told  me  that  you  had  .  .  . 
helped  her,"  he  said,  "I  was  jealous  of  you.  F 
don't  believe  1  even  said  thank  you.  Or  perhaps 
you  would  not  let  me  do  so." 

The  last  words  were  uttered  with  a  faint  bit- 
terness, but  Crozier  showed  no  sign  of  having 
heard  them. 

"  I  am  not  going  to  say  it  now.  You  need  not 
go  away,"  continued  the  sailor,  "1  know  better 
fhan  to  offer  thanks  to  you.  But  I  want  to 
reckon  up  with  you." 

He  took  his  programme  from  his  pocket  and 
laid  it  upon  his  knee.  Then  he  tore  the  pencil 
away  from  the  card  and  began  writing.  In  the 
dim  light  of  the  shaded  lamp,  at  the  foot  of  the 
broad  old  staircase,  a  strange  transaction  took 
place  while  the  jerky  schottische  music  rang 
through  the  house. 


THE  RECKONING  UP  263 

"  Five  years  and  six  months,"  said  Holdsworth, 
slowly  writing  as  he  spoke.  "  That  is  five  years 
.and  a  half  at — what  ?  What  did  you  allow  her.^" 

"Seventy  pounds  a  year,"  answered  C»'ozier, 
betraying  no  surprise. 

"Three  hundred  and  fifty — three  hundred  and 
eighty-five  pounds,"  calculated  the  sailor  aloud. 
"  1  shall  pay  you  that,  Crozier,  some  day." 

He  tore  the  dainty  little  card  in  two  and  looked 
up,  programme-pencil  in  hand. 

"Will  you  take  an  1  O  U.^" 

"No." 

Holdsworth  did  not  press  the  point.  He 
looked  at  the  pencil  figures  again,  to  make  sure 
that  there  was  no  mistake,  and  returned  the  two 
pieces  of  polished  pasteboard  to  his  waistcoat- 
pocket. 

"Three  hundred  and  eighty-five  pounds,"  he 
repeated  in  a  business-like  manner;  "I  shall  not 
forget  the  amount." 

It  was  the  price  of  a  ruined  human  existence 
— not  much  after  all,  and  probably  more  than  it 
was  worth;  but  he  did  not  seem  to  think  of  that. 

"Three  hundred  and  eighty-five  pounds,"  con- 
firmed the  singer. 

Holdsworth  stood  up,  but  neither  moved  away. 

"I  suppose  you  will  let  me  pay  it,"  he  said, 
defiantly. 

"  Oh  yes,"  replied  the  possessor  of  an  annual 
income  of  over  three  thousand  pounds,  "I  will 
let  you  pay  it." 


264  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

This  was  justice  indeed.  The  affair  was  thus 
arranged;  the  last  apparent  obhgation  put  into  a 
fair  way  of  settlement,  and  there  seemed  to  be 
nothing  more  to  say.  Crozier  made  a  little 
movement  toward  the  dancing-room,  but  the 
sailor  detained  him  by  a  slight  jerk  of  the  head. 

"In  case,"  he  said,  with  cynicism — "in  case 
there  is  any  misconception  in  your  mind  as  to 
past  events,  I  may  as  well  tell  you  that  I  alone 
was  to  blame.  I  alone  was  the  cause  of  Emily 
Harland's  leaving  her  home  and  going  .  .  , 
to  the  bad." 

"Yes;  1  suppose  so" — with  a  certain  cool 
cruelty  which  was  mostly  founded  upon  the  past^ 
for  it  was  totally  unlike  Samuel  Crozier. 

"Yes,"  continued  the  sailor,  reflectively,  "I 
suppose  you  know  that  1  ruined  her.  But, 
Crozier,  1  did  not  do  it  deliberately,  remember 
that.  I  was  led  away  .  .  .  perhaps  she  was 
a  little  hit  to  blame.  I  am  such  a  beastly  impul- 
sive fellow,  you  know,  and  act  on  the  spur  of 
the  moment,  leaving  regret  till  afterward." 

"Well,"  said  Crozier,  "I  wouldn't  think  toa 
much  about  it  now.  It  is  finished  and  done 
with,  and  there  is  no  good  to  be  got  out  of  at- 
tempting to  fix  the  blame  upon  anyone  in  par- 
ticular." 

Holdsworth  stood  in  front  of  the  singer,  lean- 
ing against  the  wall.  He  was  watching  his  face 
speculatively. 

"I  wonder,"  he  said  presently,    "if  you  did 


THE  RECKONING  UP  265 

right  in  keeping  us  apart.  It  was  a  great  re- 
sponsibility, Crozier." 

"Yes,"  was  the  answer,  "it  was.  But  there 
is  nothing  so  despicable  on  earth  as  the  man  who 
tries  to  get  through  life  without  incurring  re- 
sponsibility. Despite  what  has  happened,  I  still 
think  that  you  were  better  apart." 

"You  mean  that  she  was  better  apart  from 
me." 

The  implacable  Crozier  nodded  his  head  in 
acquiescence.  It  was  an  unfortunate  fact  that 
Holdsworth  divined  his  former  officer's  thoughts 
concerning  himself  with  remarkable  accuracy, 
and  Crozier  was  too  straightforward  a  man  to 
deny  them. 

"I  wish,  Crozier,"  continued  the  sailor,  "that 
1  could  understand  you  a  little  better.  1  wish  I 
could  understand  why  you  have  done  all  that  you 
have  done  and  tried  for  me."  He  took  the  half- 
programme  from  his  pocket  and  glanced  at  the 
pencil  figures,  hard  and  black  upon  the  polished 
surface  of  the  card.  "I  don't  think,"  he  con- 
tinued, "that  it  ought  to  finish  up  with  this! " 

He  held  out  the  card  so  that  the  figures  were 
visible  to  his  companion. 

"On  the  contrary,"  said  Crozier,  coolly,  "  I  do 
not  see  what  better  ending  could  come  about.  It 
is  a  settlement  in  full,  is  it  not.^" 

Holdsworth  shrugged  his  shoulders  impa- 
tiently. 

"No,"  he  said,  curtly,  "it  is  not." 


266  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

"I  think  we  had  better  consider  it  so,"  said 
Crozier,  moving  away.  The  music  had  ceased, 
and  the  dancers  were  already  crowding  out  of 
the  hot  room  into  the  passage. 

Holdsworth  followed  and  they  walked  side  by 
side  down  the  broad  corridor  toward  a  group  of 
mutual  acquaintances. 

"Gad!  Crozier,"  whispered  the  sailor,  with  an 
incredulous  wonder  in  his  voice,  "  you  are  a  hard 
man! " 

The  singer  turned  toward  him  with  a  faint, 
almost  apologetic  smile. 

"I'm  afraid  you  are  right,"  he  said.  And  they 
joined  the  party,  where  Tom  Valliant  and  the 
squire  were  laughing  at  each  other. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

FOREWARNED 

Despite  Crozier's  tirades  against  the  degenera- 
tion of  musical  taste,  he  gathered  a  certain 
amount  of  enjoyment  from  the  first  nights  at 
which  his  appearance  was  necessary.  He  had 
undertaken  the  musical  criticism  of  a  London 
weekly  paper  and  two  provincial  journals  because 
their  editors  had  asked  him  to  do  so,  and  at  a 
time  when  the  monthly  cheque  for  "literary  con- 
tributions "  was  welcome.  Now  in  his  affluence 
he  intended  to  continue  it  for  its  own  sake.  The 
love  of  criticising  is  deeply  planted  in  every 
man's  soul,  and  Crozier  wrote  in  a  deliberate  and 
straightforward  style,  which  not  only  carried 
weight  with  it,  but  conveyed  a  sense  of  earnest- 
ness and  an  unusual  freedom  from  personal  con- 
sideration or  bias  of  any  description.  About  the 
" operas-boil ffes"  and  "  operas-cojiiiqiies,"  v^'hich 
at  certain  intervals  carry  all  better  musical  taste 
before  them,  he  wrote  curtly  and  descriptively, 
but  not  with  open  criticism.  Public  opinion  was 
against  him,  and  he  had  neither  the  power  nor 
the  energy  to  attempt  its  education  into  better 
channels.  It  was  after  all  a  mere  matter  of  taste. 
The  British  public  liked  its  music  thin  and. 
267 


268  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

tawdry,  served  up  with  a  show  of  tinsel. 
"  Soit/"    It  was  no  affair  of  Samuel  Crozier's. 

To  Syra  he  grumbled  occasionally  in  a  semi- 
bantering  way — to  a  mere  barmaid!  It  is  to  be 
feared,  however,  that  this  singer  and  critic  was 
hopelessly  Bohemian  in  those  days.  He  even 
treated  her  as  if  she  were  a  woman,  with  a 
woman's  instinctive  good  taste;  sometimes  he 
actually  went  so  outrageously  far  as  to  treat  her 
and  speak  to  her  as  if  she  were  a  lady. 

It  was  with  some  feeling  of  pleasant  anticipa- 
tion, therefore,  that  he  called  a  cab  one  evening 
in  March  and  drove  to  a  new  theatre  in  the  West 
End.  The  excitement  in  dramatic  and  artistic 
circles  anent  this  new  venture  had  been  intense 
for  some  time.  The  building  itself  was  as  gor- 
geous as  masonry  without  and  gold-leaf  within 
could  well  make  it,  and  of  course  its  stage  was 
constructed  with  a  strict  regard  to  the  contingen- 
cies of  comic  opera.  The  house  was  to  be 
warmed  by  an  entertainment  of  this  description, 
got  up  with  a  due  regard  to  cheap  tunefulness 
and  the  newest  slang. 

At  the  side  of  the  stalls  there  was  a  kind  of 
lounge,  or  drawing-room,  where  the  occupants 
of  those  luxurious  seats  could  retire  between  the 
acts  to  stand  about  and  meet  their  friends  with- 
out being  actually  compelled  to  leave  the  theatre. 
It  was  here  that  Crozier,  on  entering,  met  several 
acquaintances  and  friends.  These  men  were 
mostly  brother-critics,  and  they  returned  later  to 


FOREWARNED  269 

the  same  spot  to  discuss  their  verdict  upon  the 
performance. 

The  news  of  Sam  Crozier's  good  fortune  was 
still  fresh,  and  he  was  sufficiently  a  favourite  to 
call  down  real  and  hearty  congratulations  from 
all  who  knew  him. 

"  Here  comes  Croesus!  "  said  one  man,  gravely 
— the  correspondent  of  a  comic  American  journal. 

"So  he  is,"  said  another,  who  wrote  musical 
criticism  for  a  religious  publication,  and  had, 
strictly  speaking,  no  business  in  the  theatre  at  alL 
"Let  us  try  and  borrow  money  from  him — eh, 
Sam  ?  I  suppose  all  your  friends  are  doing  that 
now." 

"Trying  .  .  .  Yes!"  answered  Crozier, 
as  he  shook  hands  all  round  with  his  vague, 
genial  smile. 

"1  congratulate  you,  Crozier,"  said  a  melan- 
choly-looking man,  who  wore  spectacles,  coming 
forward  with  a  thin  delicate  hand  outstretched. 
"I  congratulate  you  from  the  bottom  of  my 
heart.  I  suppose  now  I  may  look  forward  to 
being  appointed  musical  and  dramatic  critic  to 
the  Daily  intelligence,  which  is  the  aim  of  my 
life.  For  years  1  have  waited  and  prayed  for 
your  death.  1  have  hung  about  concert-halls  in 
order  to  watch  you  take  your  high  notes,  and  I 
have  even  consulted  eminent  medical  men  as  to 
whether  they  have  ever  heard  of  a  brute,  with  a 
constitution  like  a  camel,  breaking  a  blood-vessel 
on  F  sharp!     This,  however,  does  as  well,  so  we 


270  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

will  say  nothing  more  about  the  weary  years  of 
waiting," 

Some  of  the  listeners  joined  in  Crozier's  easy 
laugh,  and  most  of  them  smiled,  but  the  man 
who  had  spoken  never  changed  countenance. 
He  looked  gravely  round  him  through  his  large 
spectacles,  and  walked  away  to  greet  a  friend. 
He  rarely  spoke  seriously — this  eccentric  genius 
— but  he  never  smiled. 

At  this  moment  the  orchestra  struck  up  a  lively 
introduction,  and  there  was  a  general  move. 
The  critics  were  placed  within  reach  of  each 
other,  and  some  of  them  composed  themselves 
to  quiet  slumber  at  once,  while  the  younger 
members  of  the  fraternity  fumbled  for  their 
pencils,  with  just  sufficient  ostentation  to  call  the 
attention  of  any  one  who  happened  to  be  look- 
ing in  their  direction. 

Crozier,  who  was  without  pencil  or  notebook, 
gave  his  usual  placidly  earnest  attention  to  the 
music.  He  had  a  singular  habit  of  looking 
straight  in  front  of  him  in  a  theatre,  which  arose 
doubtless  from  the  fact  that  his  face  was  well 
known  among  frequenters  of  first  nights  and 
lovers  of  music.  If  he  looked  round,  the  action 
entailed  greeting  acquaintances  who  interested 
him  little,  or  it  would  be  received  by  nudges  and 
suppressed  whispers  which  in  no  way  gratified 
him,  flattering  though  it  might  be. 

During  the  first  act  he  scarcely  removed  his 
eyes  from  the  stage,  and  at  the  end  of  it  he  en- 


FOREWARNED  271 

tered  into  a  deep  discussion  with  a  friend  occupy- 
ing the  next  stall,  who  advocated  comic  opera  as 
being  within  the  understanding  of  the  people. 
He  therefore  had  as  yet  scarcely  looked  round  the 
theatre.  While  the  understanding  of  the  people 
was  still  in  dispute,  a  young  man  made  his  way 
along  between  the  knees  of  grumbling  old  gen- 
tlemen and  stonily-staring  dowagers,  with  a  view 
of  occupying  the  seat  on  Crozier's  left  hand, 
which  was  empty.  This  individual  was  he  who 
had  first  addressed  the  singer  on  his  entrance. 

He  took  the  vacant  chair,  and  presently  raised 
his  glasses  to  his  eyes.  The  glasses  were  directed 
toward  a  box  somewhat  high  up  upon  the  righ* 
of  the  stage,  much  to  the  contentment  of  a  be- 
diamonded  lady  occupying  the  same;  but  the 
critic's  eyes,  instead  of  looking  through  the 
lenses,  were  directed  in  the  shadow  of  his  hand 
to  the  "lounge"  where  he  had  first  met  Crozier. 
There  were  many  gentlemen  standing  there  with 
due  solemnity  and  appreciation  of  their  own 
shirt-fronts,  and  a  few  ladies  examining  the 
decorations. 

"Sam,'-'  said  the  young  fellow,  without  lower- 
ing his  binoculars,  "  what  have  you  been  up  to  ?  " 

Crozier  accorded  him  his  attention  with  an  an- 
ticipatory smile.  Despite  a  certain  ring  of  gravity 
in  the  speaker's  tone,  he  could  only  conclude  that 
the  comprehensive  question  was  the  beginning  of 
a  joke. 

"  What  have  1  been  up  to  ?  "  he  repeated.     "Let 


272  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

me  see.  Nothing  criminal  within  the  last  week, 
I  think." 

The  young  fellow  laid  his  opera-glasses  on  his 
knees,  and  turned  sideways  in  his  seat,  crossing 
his  legs  and  leaning  his  arm  upon  the  cushioned 
back  of  the  stall. 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  "it  is  no  business  of 
mine;  but  I  happened  to  be  looking  round  the 
place  just  now,  and  I  saw  two  fellows  standing 
in  the  gangway  behind  the  upper  boxes.  There 
was  nothing  at  all  noticeable  in  them  beyond  the 
fact  that  they  were  looking  at  you;  in  fact  one  of 
them  was  pointing  you  out  to  the  other.  I 
watched  them,  and  there  was  something  sneaky 
and  disagreeable  in  their  movements  which  I 
didn't  like  at  all.  Don't  look  in  that  direction  just 
yet ;  but  they  are  now  standing  in  the  little  '  salon ' 
place,  where  we  all  met  to-night." 

Crozier  scratched  his  strong  chin  thoughtfully 
with  one  finger. 

"It  is  a  funny  business,"  he  said;  "1  don't  re- 
member committing  any  crime  lately.  I  expect 
they're  secretaries  of  charity  organization  socie- 
ties, who  have  been  reading  the  Illustrated  Lon- 
don News,  and  want  to  fix  me  for  an  annual  sub- 
scription or  so." 

The  correspondent  of  the  theological  paper  was 
not  by  any  means  a  serious  young  man,  but  he 
took  this  incident  very  gravely. 

"  It  is  no  joke,"  he  said,  "  to  be  taken  for  some 
one   else   in   some   cases.     Of  course  there  are 


FOREWARNED  273 

plenty  of  us  here  to-night  to  prove  your  identity; 
but  I  have  a  wholesome  dread  of  the  law." 

At  this  moment  the  curtain  rose,  and  Crozier 
took  the  opportunity  of  glancing  toward  the  spot 
indicated  by  his  companion.  The  two  men  were 
certainly  there,  standing  modestly  in  a  dark  cor- 
ner, but  rendered  conspicuous  by  their  rough  top- 
coats amidst  the  black-clad  pleasure  seekers. 

"I  admire  the  police  very  much,"  he  said  pleas- 
antly to  his  companion  as  he  settled  himself  to 
face  the  stage,  "  in  the  abstract." 

At  the  end  of  the  act  he  leant  forward  to  seek 
his  hat  beneath  the  seat. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  asked  his  com- 
panion. 

"I  am  going  out — at  least,  I  am  going  to  the 
foyer.  These  fellows  will  finish  by  making  me 
conspicuous,  which  for  a  man  of  my  shy  and  re- 
tiring nature  is  a  painful  prospect." 

The  young  journalist  did  not  seem  to  take  the 
matter  in  quite  such  a  placid  spirit. 

"What! — are  you  going  to  speak  to  them.?" 
he  asked. 

"No;  but  I  am  going  to  stand  quite  close  to 
them.  They  would  like  a  good  look  at  me,  I  am 
sure." 

"  Well,  don't  let  us  have  a  scene." 

Crozier  laughed  reassuringly. 

"I  have  never  taken  even  a  minor  part  in  a 
scene  yet.  This  is  hardly  the  place  to  make  a 
debut,"  he  said.     "Come  along  and  stand  near 


274  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

me;  we  will  talk  weather  while  they  walk  round 
LIS  and  take  notes.  Privately,  Soames,  I  believe 
it  is  you  they  are  after." 

And  he  rose,  in  every  detail  he  carried  out  his 
threat,  even  to  discussing  the  weather. 

The  two  men  bore  it  for  some  moments  in 
silence,  then  one  made  a  step  forward,  and  with- 
out touching  Crozier,  stood  beside  him.  Soames, 
the  newspaper  correspondent,  was  in  front  of 
him,  looking  up  from  his  inferior  height  into  the 
singer's  face. 

"George  Shenstone,"  said  the  man,  in  a  clear 
undertone;  "George  Shenstone,  unless  I'm  mis- 
taken." 

Crozier's  finger  and  thumb  had  been  resting  in 
his  waistcoat-pocket,  and  he  now  withdrew  them 
from  it  with  a  card  which  he  handed  unostenta- 
tiously to  the  detective.  It  was  all  done  so  quietly 
and  indifferently  by  both  men,  that  no  one  who 
did  not  actually  hear  their  words  would  have 
thought  that  any  communication  had  passed  be- 
tween them ;  but  Soames  noticed  that  at  the  men- 
tion of  the  words  "George  Shenstone,"  an  ex- 
pression of  mingled  surprise  and  anxiety  passed 
across  the  singer's  face. 

"No,  I  am  not  George  Shenstone,"  he  replied, 
as  he  gave  the  card.  "That  is  my  name,  and 
there  are  twenty  men  within  call  who  will  vouch 
for  it." 

The  man  glanced  at  the  card,  and  gave  it  back 
immediately. 


FOREWARNED  27s 

"I  thought  we  were  on  the  wrong  track,"  he 
said,  apologetically.  "1  ought  to  have  remem- 
bered your  face  before.  There  is  a  photograph 
of  you  in  a  music-publisher's  shop  in  Oxford 
Street." 

"Indeed." 

"I  must  apologize,"  continued  the  detective, 
simply;  "it  was  very  clumsy  of  me." 

"  Not  at  all,"  answered  Crozier,  in  a  constrained 
tone,  which  was  unlike  him. 

The  detective  glanced  in  a  keenly  questioning 
manner  at  his  impassive  face,  and  then  moved 
away  quietly  without  saying  anything  more.  He 
called  his  companion  with  a  mere  movement  of 
the  eyebrows,  and  they  passed  out  of  the  audito- 
rium together. 

Crozier  did  not  move  until  the  swinging-door 
had  closed  behind  them. 

"  Soames,"  he  said,  "  don't  say  anything  about 
this.  I  believe  1  know  something  of  the  fellow 
they  are  after — a  poor  devil  of  a  blue-jacket,  who 
got  sick  of  the  sea  before  his  time  was  up,  and 
deserted.  Not  much  of  a  crime  in  times  of 
peace." 

"All  right!"  answered  the  journalist;  "1  will 
keep  quiet." 

And  it  is  worth  noting  that  he  did  so. 

Then  they  got  separated,  and  Crozier  presently 
went  back  to  the  stalls.  He  did  not,  however, 
return  to  his  own,  but  occupied  for  a  few  min- 
utes a  vacant  chair  next  the  melancholy  gentle- 


276  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

man  who  so  openly  coveted  his  post  on  the  statT 
of  the  Daily  liitelligetice. 

"I  say,  Watson,"  he  said,  when  he  was  seated, 
"  have  you  got  a  telegram-form  ?  " 

"Never  am  without  one,  my  friend,"  replied 
the  old  stager. 

After  a  short  search  he  handed  Crozier  the  re- 
quired paper,  and  discreetly  looked  the  other 
way  while  the  singer  wrote. 

The  gist  of  the  message  was  hardly  calculated 
to  be  read,  however,  at  once  by  a  casual  observer 
with  much  edification. 

"I  was  to-day  mistaken  for  a.  seaman,  late 
Willow-'wren,  who  is  wanted. — S.  C." 

This  ambiguous  and  pointless  news  was  ad- 
dressed to  William  Holdsworth,  Heath  End, 
Goldheath;  and  a  few  minutes  after  it  was  writ- 
ten a  commissionaire  hurried  to  the  General  Post 
Office  from  whence  it  was  despatched. 

In  the  meantime  the  play  was  progressing 
happily  enough,  and  the  critics  were  beginning 
to  yawn.  At  the  end  of  the  third  act  these 
gentlemen  met  in  the  open  space  at  the  side  of 
the  stalls  and  talked  over  their  verdict,  after 
which  it  is  a  painful  duty  to  record  that  some  of 
them  went  home. 

Crozier,  however,  stayed  to  the  end,  as  was  his 
wont.  When  at  length  the  curtain  fell  he  passed 
out  of  the  theatre  alone,  and  at  the  door  found  the 
detective  who  had  spoken  to  him  earlier  in  the 
evening.     There  was  no  sign  of  his  companion. 


FOREWARNED  277 

The  man  dropped  alongside  of  him  when  he 
had  penetrated  through  the  crowd  and  fell  into 
step. 

"Excuse  me,  Mr.  Crozier,'"  he  said,  "excuse 
me  troubling  you  again,  but  we  have  to  suppress 
our  own  inclinations  very  often  in  my  profession, 
and  I  can  assure  you  that  it  is  quite  against  my 
will." 

The  singer  laughed  as  he  lighted  his  cigar. 

"Oh,"  he  answered,  "pray  don't  apologize. 
I  suppose  it  is  the  duty  of  every  honest  citizen  to 
assist  the  cause  of  justice." 

The  disciple  of  justice  did  not  exactly  seize 
with  avidity  upon  this  theory.  He  contented 
himself  with  murmuring  something  to  the  effect 
that  the  general  impression  was  of  that  nature. 

"  I  have  just  recollected,  sir,"  he  continued  in  a 
business-like  tone,  "that  you  were  once  in  Her 
Majesty's  Navy — did  you  ever  serve  on  board  the 
IV/I/ozo-wren  ?" 

The  question,  asked  with  a  certain  doubtful- 
ness as  if  the  event  were  very  unlikely,  might 
have  disconcerted  any  one  totally  unprepared 
for  it. 

"Yes,"  answered  Crozier,  quite  naturally,  "I 
served  seven  years  on  board  of  her." 

"  Then  this  man  Shenstone  would  be  on  board 
at  the  same  time  as  you." 

The  singer  turned  slowly  and  deliberately. 
The  man,  who  was  slightly  above  him  in  height, 
was  looking  at  him,  and  their  eyes  met. 


278  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

"Indeed,"  said  the  singer,  with  an  expression 
on  his  quiet  face  which  can  only  be  described  as 
dense. 

"  Yes,"  remarked  the  man  vaguely,  "I  believe 
he  would."  He  could  not  make  out  that  density, 
and  something  in  the  ex-officer's  manner  made 
him  feel  uncomfortable,  as  if  he  were  prying  into 
the  affairs  of  a  gentleman  with  whom  he  had  no 
business. 

"Well,"  he  added  with  some  hesitation,  after 
they  had  walked  a  short  distance  in  silence,  "  1 
can  only  apologize  again,  sir,  for  having  troubled 
you." 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Crozier,  looking  straight  in 
front  of  him. 

"Good-night,  sir." 

"  Good-night." 

The  detective  dropped  behind  and  presently 
crossed  the  road,  while  Crozier  walked  on  smok- 
ing restfully. 

"Got  rid  of  him,"  he  murmured  between  the 
puffs  with  a  certain  satisfaction. 

As  he  walked  on  through  the  crowd,  beneath 
the  brilliant  lamps,  amidst  the  roar  and  hubbub 
of  midnight  life  in  the  Strand,  he  reflected  as 
quietly  and  collectedly  as  if  he  had  been  alone  in 
some  desertfed  country  lane,  or  keeping  the  middle 
watch  on  board  the  Willoiv-wren. 

This  power  of  self-absorption  was  no  special 
possession  of  his.  It  is  a  growth  of  the  pave- 
ment— that  stony  place  where  many  vices  and 


FORHVVARNHD        >  279 

few  virtues  llouiish— and  men  who  walk  the. 
streets,  soon  acquire  it.  They  soon  learn  to  pass 
by  Vice  and  touch  elbows  with  it,  unheeding, 
uncontaminated,  and  probably  unmoved  by  pity. 
But  Virtue,  alas!  they  also  gaze  at  vaguely  and 
admire  it  not,  scarcely  taking  the  trouble  to  dis- 
tinguish it. 

As  he  walked  home  from  the  theatre,  and  after 
a  little  sigh  of  relief  directed  toward  the  depart- 
ing detective,  Crozier  allowed  himself  to  reflect 
— not  upon  Wrong  and  Right  and  such  things — 
but  upon  his  own  recent  action  as  regarded 
William  Holdsworth.  Of  course  he  had  done 
wrong;  there  could  be  no  doubt  about  that;  but 
he  smoked  serenely,  and  to  judge  from  the  ex- 
pression of  his  face,  was  fully  prepared  to  go  on 
doing  wrong.  Such  indeed  was  the  case.  He 
had  warned  the  runaway  sailor,  and  if  further 
aid  was  needed,  he  was  in  an  indefinite  way  pre- 
pared to  render  it — not  from  friendship  toward 
the  unsatisfactory  fellow,  but  because  there 
existed  between  them  the  mystic  tie  of  a  mutual 
affection.  One  name  there  was  in  either  heart 
enshrined  in  the  halo  of  an  old  association — the 
name  of  Willow-ivreii, — and  for  the  sake  of  that 
name  an  upright  man  willingly  frustrated  the 
cause  of  justice,  and  rendered  a  great  service  to  a 
shipmate,  who  would  never  possess  the  means, 
nor  be  actuated  by  the  desire,  to  return  it.  While 
he  reflected,  there  arose  before  his  mind's  eye  the 
upright  form  of  a  genial,  white-haired  old  sailor 


28o  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

— his  former  chief — a  man  whose  heart  and  soul 
were  wrapped  up  in  the  Willow-wren,  and  who 
boasted  in  a  harmless  lovable  way  that  her  good 
name  had  never  been  dragged  through  court- 
martial  or  newspaper  trial. 

"Yes,"  muttered  the  ex-officer,  "  Holdsworth 
must  get  away,  for  the  sake  of  the  old  ship." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

FOR   THE   ship's  SAKE 

It  happened  that  Crozier  reached  his  rooms 
rather  earlier  than  usual  in  the  evening  following 
the  theatre  episode.  He  had  been  out  several 
nights  in  succession,  and  was  tired;  but  the  fatal 
habit  of  keeping  late  hours  was  strong  upon  him, 
and  at  eleven  o'clock  he  took  a  book,  lighted  his 
pipe,  and  established  himself  in  his  deep  arm- 
chair to  enjoy  a  quiet  hour. 

Hardly  was  he  seated  when  a  light  footstep 
beneath  his  window  caused  him  to  look  up.  The 
sound  of  it  in  some  way  suggested  flight.  It 
seemed  as  if  some  one  had  fled  to  Lime  Court,. 
and,  having  no  knowledge  of  the  locality,  was 
now  standing  beneath  the  window  with  the 
double  purpose  of  ascertaining  whether  the  pur- 
suer were  still  following,  and  of  observing  the 
possible  exits  in  case  of  necessity. 

The  very  lightness  of  the  step  attracted 
Crozier's  attention.  The  ordinary  malefactor  is 
not  light-footed.  A  chase  down  the  darker 
streets  and  alleys  leading  from  the  Strand  is  of 
nightly  occurrence,  but  he  who  leads  it  rarely 
runs  lightly.  He  is  generally  a  pickpocket,  with 
shocking  bad  boots  several  sizes  too  large  for 
281 


282  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

him.  The  scientific  burglar  is  a  heavy-footed 
man,  but  he  counteracts  this  natural  defect  by  a 
pair  of  list  slippers,  which  make  no  sound  at  all. 
Without  thinking  much  of  these  things  in  a 
general  way,  the  singer  allowed  his  attention  to 
wander  from  his  book,  and  he  sat  listening  in  a 
semi-indifTerent  way  for  the  next  movement  of 
those  light  feet. 

Suddenly  there  arose  in  the  silence  a  sound 
which  made  the  placid  singer  jump  to  his  feet, 
iind  throw  his  book  upon  the  table  without 
staying  to  mark  the  place.  This  sound  was  a 
whistle,  low  and  melodious  without  being  ac- 
tually furtive.  It  might  have  been  the  call  of  one 
boy  to  another  in  a  game  of  hide-and-seek,  a 
pastime  much  in  vogue  among  the  youths  of  the 
neighbourhood,  and  to  which  the  intricacies  of 
the  Temple  lent  additional  charms.  Only  a  naval 
man  would  have  recognized  that  the  whistle  was 
the  boatswain's  call  of  "  all  hands  on  deck." 

While  Crozier  stood  listening  the  call  was  re- 
peated. 

"  Holdsworth!  "  he  muttered.  '•'  What  a  fool! 
What  an  insane  fool!  " 

Then  he  ran  lightly  downstairs  and  opened  the 
door.  In  the  shadow  of  the  lime  tree,  which 
was  weakly  budding,  stood  a  man  looking  round 
his  apprehensively. 

"  Come  in!  "  said  Crozier  briefly. 

The  man  came  forward,  ran  lightly  up  the 
steps  and  passed  into  the  dimly-lighted  passage. 


FOR  THE  SHIPS  SAKE  28^ 

He  was  breathless,  and  his  weak  mouth  twitched 
convulsively. 

"1  did  not  know  your  number,"  he  gasped, 
"  but  1  knew  it  was  Lime  Court!  " 

Crozier  nodded  his  head  and  led  the  way  si- 
lently upstairs.  When  they  were  in  the  room 
and  the  door  was  closed,  he  spoke  at  length,  and 
there  was  a  suggestion  of  tolerance  in  his  voice 
which  his  companion's  quick  ears  did  not  fail  tc 
catch. 

"What  a  fool  you  are,  Holdsworth!"  he 
said. 

"That's  it,"  exclaimed  the  other  petulantly. 
"  Hit  a  man  when  he  is  down;  stoop  from  the 
heights  of  virtue,  and  shove  a  chap  down  the  hill. 
But  I  have  no  time,  Crozier,  to  listen  if  you  are 
going  to  abuse  me,  which  I  suppose  you  have  a 
right  to  do.  Im  in  a  beastly  narrow  place,  and 
somehow  I've  come  to  you.  It  isn't  the  first 
time,  God  knows! " 

"No,"  agreed  Crozier;  "it  isn't  the  first  time. 
But  surely  any  one  with  a  scrap  of  sense  would 
have  known  that  it  was  simple  foolery  to  come 
to  London  after  my  telegram." 

"Your  telegram,"  repeated  the  other;  "  what 
do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  1  telegraphed  to  you  last  night." 

"  At  Goldheath  .?  " 

"Yes." 

"I  have  been  in  London  three  days." 

"Ah,  "  said  Crozier,  in  a  softer  tone,  "  that  is 


284  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

a  different  matter.  I  beg  your  pardon.  My 
warning  missed  fire." 

At  this  moment  some  one  walked  sharply  past 
beneath  the  window.  Holdsworth,  who  had  in 
a  great  degree  regained  his  composure,  changed 
colour. 

' '  Listen !  "  he  whispered ;  '  *  who  is  that  ?  " 

Then,  for  the  ilrst  time,  they  looked  into  each 
'Other's  faces.  In  Holdsworth's  eyes  there  was 
;an  unpleasant  glitter,  which  by  some  strange  in- 
ifluence  was  transmitted  to  Crozier's.  The  singer's 
thoughtful  face  was  quite  transformed  by  it,  and 
the  change  was  hardly  pleasant.  These  two  men 
diad  been  in  action  together,  actually  fighting  side 
(by  side.  Mere  affairs  of  a  boat's  crew  these  had 
been,  in  connection  with  the  suppression  of 
Chinese  piracy,  but  where  a  man's  life  is  con- 
'cerned  it  matters  little  whether  the  battle  be  a 
Waterloo  or  a  skirmish.  In  those  few  moments 
both  recalled  the  half-forgotten  dangers  they  had 
shared  in  bygone  days,  and  perhaps  Holdsworth 
benefited  by  the  recollection.  The  footsteps  died 
away,  and  both  heaved  a  little  sigh  of  relief. 

"There  is  no  time  to  lose,"  said  Holdsworth, 
hurriedly;  "listen  to  this.  Yesterday  morning  I 
Avas  walking  along  a  quiet  street  near  Victoria 
Station,  when  who  should  I  meet,  face  to  face, 
but  Jerome.^  You  remember  him;  he  was  a 
middy  in  your  time,  and  the  greatest  fool  on 
board.  He  recognized  me  at  once,  though  I  did 
inot  give  him  credit  for  so  much  sense;  stopped 


FOR  THE  SHIPS  SAKE  iS^ 

and  held  out  his  stick  so  that  I  could  not  pass. 
'George  Shenstone — A.  B.,'  he  drawled,  in  that 
confoundedly  squeaky  voice  which  used  to  bet 
nowhere  in  a  breeze  of  wind.  'George  Shen- 
stone, I  think  you're  wanted.'  I  wasn't  going  to 
be  taken  by  a  weak-kneed  dandy  like  Jerome, 
who  is  no  more  a  sailor  than  those  sugar-tongs, 
(yes,  thanks,  1  will  have  a  little  cold  water),  so  E 
let  out.  1  did  not  hit  him  in  the  face;  only  on; 
the  chest;  but  I  think  I  hit  hard;  then  I  sheered 
off." 

Crozier  took  up  an  evening  paper  which  la}? 
upon  the  table. 

"Yes,"  he  said  slowly,  "you  must  have  hit 
hard,  for  you  broke  two  of  his  ribs.  There  is  art 
account  of  it  here.  Luckily  for  you,  Jerome  was 
too  much  injured  to  make  his  deposition,  or  give 
a  minute  description  of  his  assailant.  They  fear 
some  internal  complication.  There  it  is;  you  had 
better  read  it." 

Holdsworth  took  the  newspaper  and  read  the 
short  notice  through  once  or  twice. 

"Just  like  my  luck,"  he  exclaimed,  recklessly _ 
"  But  he  will  be  all  right,  never  fear;  I  didn't  hit 
him  hard.  Besides,  he  must  have  recovered  suf- 
ficiently to  give  particulars,  because  I '  was-, 
tracked  to  Myra's  to-night.  I  went  in  there  with 
Varden.  Soon  afterward  two  fellows  came  im 
and  asked  for  a  drink.  That  pretty  girl  there — 
Syra — served  them,  in  an  off-hand  wav,  and  I  saw 
the  fellows  glance  uncomfortably  around,  as  if 


286  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

they  felt  a  little  out  of  their  element.  It  appears 
that  all  the  frequenters  of  Myra's  know  each 
other  more  or  less,  and  these  two  outsiders  were 
promptly  recognized  as  such.  When  they  had 
left,  the  question  arose  as  to  who  and  what  they 
were;  and  one  feljow  laughingly  suggested  that 
they  might  be  detectives.  I  laughed  with  the 
rest,  but  I  knew  that  he  was  right.  I  can  tell 
you,  Crozier,  it  took  me  some  time  to  make  up 
my  mind  to  go  out  of  that  door.  When  I  did  go 
out — hanging  on  to  Varden's  arm  like  a  sailor's 
sweetheart — I  looked  up  and  down  the  street; 
and  in  a  doorway  higher  up  the  hill  I  spotted  the 
two  men.  We  walked  along  as  far  as  Charing 
Cross,  and  1  suppose  they  followed  us  all  the 
way.  I  only  dared  to  turn  my  head  once,  and 
then  I  saw  them  some  way  behind.  At  Charing 
Cross  Varden  took  a  hansom.  I  got  round  the 
corner,  and  made  a  bolt  down  Craven  Street, 
through  that  tunnel  under  the  railway  station, 
iind  back  into  the  Strand  by  the  darkest  streets  I 
could  find.  I  have  given  them  the  slip,  but  there 
is  no  time  to  be  lost.  What  am  1  to  do,  Crozier? 
Tell  me,  for  the  sake  of  old  times." 

"Oh,"  said  the  singer,  "it  is  all  right.  Ill 
help  you,  but  not  for  the  sake  of  old  times, 
Holdsworth.  I'll  do  it  for  the  sake  of  the  ship. 
We  don't  want  her  name  dragged  through  the 
police-courts.  These  two  men  came  to  me  last 
night  at  the  theatre.  They  mistook  me  for  you, 
and  as  soon  as  they  were  persuaded  to  the  con- 


FOR  THE  SHIPS  SAKE  287 

trary  I  wired  to  you  at  Goldheath  to  be  on  the 
lookout,  taking  it  for  granted  that  you  would 
lie  low  there  until  the  affair  blew  over.  Of 
course  I  did  not  knoAV  of  this  business  of  Je- 
rome's. 1  thought  it  was  only  the  old  question 
of  the  unexpired  service.  Afterward  they  came 
back  to  me,  apologized,  and  said  that  they  had 
discovered  that  I  had  been  an  officer  on  board 
the  IViHozv-zcrcii,  and  told  me  that  they  were 
seeking  for  you." 

Holdsworth's  confidence  was  returning.  This 
was  undoubtedly  the  result  of  his  companion's 
cool  readiness  to  assist  him.  He  knew  that 
Crozier  would  carry  out  anything  he  undertook. 

"And  now,"  continued  the  singer,  "you  must 
get  back  to  Goldheath.  That  is  the  safest  place 
for  you.  Every  outlet  from  the  kingdom  is 
watched,  and  a  sailor  cannot  disguise  himself 
when  he  smells  tar.  They  would  spot  you  by 
the  very  way  you  walked  down  the  gangway  to 
the  boat.  You  had  better  stay  here  to-night,  and 
go  down  by  the  first  train  to-morrow  morning." 

"  Hush!  "  interrupted  Holdsworth.  "  What  is 
that  ?  " 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  official  tread;  and, 
moreover,  other  footsteps  accompanied  it. 
Holdsworth  reached  out  his  hand  toward  the 
gas,  but  his  companion  motioned  him  to  leave  it^ 

"  It  is  all  right,"  he  whispered.  "'The  curtains 
are  thick;  they  cannot  see  that  the  gas  is 
alight. " 


288  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

"  Then  turn  it  out  and  look  through  the  corner 
of  the  window,"  said  Holdsworth. 

Crozier  obeyed  him,  and  moved  cautiously 
across  the  dark  room  toward  the  window. 

"There  is  a  light  downstairs  in  the  passage," 
Holdsworth  whispered  hoarsely. 

"So  there  is  in  every  passage  in  the  court," 
replied  Crozier,  as  he  cautiously  drew  back  the 
curtain.  "  We  are  a  dissipated  lot!  Yes,"  he 
continued,  "there  they  are — two  fellows  in  plain 
-clothes  and  a  bobby." 

"Well  then,  I'm  caught." 

"Not  yet.  They  have  traced  you  as  far  as 
here,  by  some  means  or  other,  but  they  must  be 
off  the  scent  now.  There  is  no  place  in  London 
like  the  Temple  for  leading  people  astray,  espe- 
cially at  night,  when  some  of  the  passages  are 
barred,  and  others  left  open." 

The  murmur  of  suppressed  voices  reached  the 
ears  of  the  two  men  as  they  stood  in  the  dark 
room,  hardly  breathing.  Then  Crozier  closed 
the  curtain  cautiously,  and  lighted  the  gas,  tak- 
ing, however,  the  precaution  of  keeping  it  low. 

"You  cannot  stay  here,  Holdsworth,"  he  said. 
^' As  soon  as  these  fellows  move  you  must  make 
a  bolt  for  it." 

"1  think,"  said  the  other  deliberately,  "thatl 
will  go  out  and  give  myself  up.  It  is  not  worth 
getting  you  into  a  row." 

Nevertheless  he  stood  still  beside  the  table, 
iind  showed  no  sign  of  moving. 


FOR  THE  SHIPS  SAKE  289 

"Rot!"  murmured  Crozier.  He  knew  William 
Holdsworth  very  well,  and  rightly  judged  that 
the  argument  would  go  no  further.  "  Listen  to 
me,"  he  continued  in  a  business-like  way.  "  As 
soon  as  these  fellows  move  we  will  go  out  to- 
gether. I  have  an  old  ulster  which  you  can 
wear,  and  you  may  as  well  take  one  of  my  hats. 
We  will  go  out  arm-in-arm,  and  simply  brazen 
it  out.  If  the  fellows  see  through  it,  make  a 
fight  for  it  and  run;  I  will  make  a  fight,  and  let 
them  collar  me.  It  is  very  dark  all  about  here, 
and  they  will  not  be  able  to  tell  one  from  the 
other.  Now  pay  great  attention  to  this — wait,  I 
will  draw  you  a  chart,  because  it  is  complicated. 
There  are  four  outlets  from  Lime  Court.  This  is 
the  one  you  must  take.  It  divides  about  ten 
yards  down.  The  alley  to  the  right  is  the  one 
you  must  follow,  but  don't  go  straight  ahead; 
turn  sharp  to  the  right  as  soon  as  you  get  into  it. 
It  looks  almost  like  a  doorway,  but  it  is  really  a 
passage,  which  curves  round  and  takes  you  into 
a  narrow  street  near  the  embankment.  Go  across- 
Blackfriars  Bridge,  make  your  way  along  South- 
wark  Street,  and  get  into  London  Bridge  Station 
just  in  time  to  miss  the  last  train  to  somewhere 
or  other,  it  does  not  much  matter  where.  Then 
go  to  the  Bridge  House  Hotel  to  sleep,  and  take 
care  to  let  everybody  know  that  you  have  missed 
the  last  train,  which  will  account  for  the  absence 
of  luggage.  Go  down  to  Goldheath  by  the  first 
train  to-morrow  morning.  Do  you  understand.^" 


290  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

Holdsworth  studied  the  roughly-drawn  chart 
for  a  moment. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  eagerly,  "1  understand;  and 
by  God,  Crozier,  if  1  get  out  of  this  111    .     .     ." 

"All  right,"  interrupted  Crozier,  almost 
roughly,  "  1  know  all  about  that." 

Holdsworth  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  laughed 
bitterly. 

"I  see  you  have  not  changed,"  he  said. 
"There  is  a  suspicion  of  the  quarter-deck  about 
you  still." 

But  Crozier  was  not  listening.  He  had  passed 
through  the  curtained  doorway  into  his  bedroom, 
and  presently  he  returned  carrying  a  large  coat 
and  a  hat. 

"  Here  you  are,"  he  said.  "  Put  that  ulster  on, 
and  the  hat.  Nothing  changes  a  man's  appear- 
ance so  much  as  another  fellow's  hat.  I  will 
wear  yours,"  he  continued,  after  a  pause,  "es- 
pecially as  I  noticed  that  it  is  a  superior  article  to 
my  own." 

In  a  few  moments  Holdsworth  was  ready. 
His  companion  slipped  on  a  top-coat,  and  then 
turned  out  the  gas.  He  approached  the  window, 
and  drew  aside  the  curtain. 

"They  have  gone,"  he  said.  "No  doubt  they 
have  dispersed  to  watch  the  exits,  which  is  all 
the  better.  Turn  up  the  gas,  and  let  me  have  a 
look  at  you." 

A  short  survey  apparently  satisfied  him. 

"Yes,"  he    said,    "you  will    do    splendidly 


FOR  THE  SHIP'S  SAKE  291 

And  now  cigars,  and  then  we  will  be  complete. 
Cigars  and  a  swagger." 

He  handed  the  box  toward  Holdsworth  across 
the  table  and  helped  himself.  He  struck  a  match, 
and  lighted  up  before  handing  the  match  to  his 
companion.  Instead  of  taking  it,  Holdsworth 
leant  forward  with  the  cigar  between  his  lips; 
and  had  either  man  been  in  the  least  nervous  it 
would  have  been  impossible  to  hide  a  slight 
tremble  of  hand  or  lip.  Ifut  cigar  and  match 
were  alike  steady,  and  the  tobacco  glowed. 
Then  Holdsworth  looked  up,  and  their  eyes  met. 
Both  were  smiling,  as  if  they  took  a  youthful 
pleasure  in  seeking  danger  for  its  own  sake. 
That  passing  smile  illuminated  by  a  flickering 
wax  match,  framed  in  a  halo  of  cigar  smoke, 
was  the  recollection  that  each  carried  of  the  other 
through  the  rest  of  his  life,  for  they  never  looked 
into  each  other's  face  again.  Crozier  threw  the 
match  into  the  fireplace,  and  led  the  way  to- 
ward the  door. 

"By  the  way,"  he  said  on  the  stairs,  "have 
you  enough  money  ?" 

"Yes,  thanks,"  was  the  reply.  "Fortunately 
I  get  a  cheque  cashed  yesterday,  so  I  need  not 
borrow  anything  from  you.  1  owe  you  a  good 
deal,  Crozier,  that  1  can  never  pay,  but  if  some 
day  you  get  a  cheque  for  three  hundred  and 
eighty-five  pounds,  pay  it  into  your  bank,  and 
remember  that  the  remainder  of  my  debt  is  not 
quite  forgotten." 


292  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

Holdsworth  was  under  the  warming  influence 
of  real  honest  gratitude,  and  it  was  rather  annoy- 
ing not  to  be  able  to  express  it.  He  did  not  dare 
to  do  more  than  hint  at  it  in  this  way,  and  the 
singer  gave  him  no  encouragement.  His  faith  in 
Holdsworth's  gratitude  was  dead,  and  it  could 
never  now  be  revived. 

"  Five  years  and  a  half,'*  continued  the  fugitive, 
"at  seventy,  is  three  hundred  and  eighty-five 
pounds.     Some  day i will  pay  you!" 

"  Better  leave  it  as  it  is!"  grumbled  Crozier. 
His  hand  was  on  the  latch,  and  turning,  he  looked 
sharply  at  his  companion.  "Are  you  ready.?" 
he  inquired.  "As  soon  as  we  are  outside  take 
my  arm,  and  try  to  walk  differently  from  your- 
self; put  on  a  swagger,  and  hang  your  head. 
Don't  let  them  see  that  you've  been  drilled." 

Then  he  opened  the  door,  and  they  passed  out. 
It  was  a  clear  dark  night  with  no  moon.  In  the 
open  country  the  reflection  of  the  stars  might 
have  illuminated  the  earth  to  some  small  extent, 
but  in  the  narrow  passages  and  courts  of  the 
Temple  the  darkness  was  profound.  With  linked 
arms  they  went  down  the  steps  together,  and 
crossed  the  court.  There  was  a  man  standing 
idly  at  the  exit  by  which  they  intended  to  pass. 
He  appeared  to  be  searching  for  a  match  where- 
with to  light  his  pipe.  As  they  passed  the  lime 
tree,  Holdsworth  committed  a  slight  error  by 
falling  into  step  in  a  practised  manner  with  his 
companion. 


FOR  THE  SHIPS  SAKE  293 

The  man  struck  a  match  at  the  precise  moment 
when  they  passed  him,  and  guarding  it  within 
his  half-closed  hands,  managed  very  cleverly  to 
throw  the  light  upon  their  faces,  while  apparently 
having  no  other  intention  than  that  of  lighting 
his  pipe.  Holdsworth,  however,  who  was  near- 
est to  him,  frustrated  his  design  by  deliberately 
shielding  his  eyes  \yith  his  hand  as  if  the  light 
dazzled  him. 

"its  confoundedly  dark,"  he  said,  at  the  same 
time. 

Crozier  assented  airily,  and  they  passed  on; 
but  glancing  back  over  his  shoulder  he  saw  the 
man  run  across  the  court,  doubtless  with  the  in- 
tention of  calling  ^  companion. 

"  Run!  "  whispered  the  singer.    "Run  for  it!  " 

Side  by  side  they  sped  through  the  narrow 
passages,  and  presently  emerged  into  a  deserted 
street- 

"Now,"  said  Crozier,  somewhat  breathlessly, 
^'  we  must  walk  a  little.  There  are  often  police- 
men about  here,  and  we  must  not  attract  atten- 
tion." 

Soon  after  he  broke  into  a  run  again,  and 
guided  his  companion  through  a  maze  of  narrow 
and  dirty  streets.  Occasionally  they  passed  a 
house  that  was  lighted  up,  and  from  which  the 
throb  of  an  engine  suggested  printing,  which  is 
essentially  a  nocturnal  industry  in  these  hurried 
times,  but  most  of  the  buildings  upon  either  side 
of  them  were  dark  and  deserted. 


294  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

At  length  they  arrived  in  a  broad  thoroughfare 
through  which  a  scanty  traffic  straggled. 

"Here  you  are!"  said  Crozier,  "Take  a 
hansom  to  London  Bridge.  1  go  this  way.  We 
must  not  be  seen  together.     Good-bye!  " 

He  turned  to  go  at  once,  without  waiting  for 
thanks,  without  taking  his  hand  from  his  pocket; 
but  Holdsworth  followed  him. 

"Good-bye,  Crozier,"  he  said,  in  a  concen- 
trated voice,  as  he  held  his  hand  out  so  that  it 
was  impossible  to  ignore  it. 

The  singer  shook  hands  quite  simply  and 
naturally. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  repeated.  "There  is  a  han- 
som at  the  other  side  of  the  road." 

And  he  turned  his  back  and  walked  away. 
Presently  he  turned  into  Fleet  Street,  and  through 
the  more  crowded  thoroughfare  placidly  made 
his  way.  Around  him  was  vice  enough,  and 
misery  more  than  enough.  The  very  incarnation 
of  both  touched  him  on  either  side,  brushing  past 
or  cringing  after,  but  he  heeded  them  not.  This 
darker  side  of  humanity  was  no  new  thing  to 
Samuel  Crozier,  and  perhaps  he  was  after  all  a 
hard-hearted  man.  He  hummed  a  tune  to  him- 
self under  his  breath,  and  disregarded  the  story 
of  the  woman  at  his  elbow  who  had  not  eaten  a 
bite  o'  bread  for  four  days.  Yet  he  had  risked 
his  good  name,  disregarded  his  obvious  duty  as  a 
late  officer  in  her  Majesty's  service,  and  openly 
connived  at  the  breaking  of  the  law  in  order  to 


FOR  THH  SHIP'S  SAKH  295 

lighten  one  of  these  burthens;  for  the  line  of  dis- 
tinction between  Holdswoith  who  drove  away 
in  a  hansom,  and  the  felon  who  sneaked  back  to 
his  particular  doorway  clutching  the  penny  he 
had  earned  by  shutting  tiie  cab-door  was  less 
marked  than  the  former  thought. 

Crozier  seemed  to  be  quite  unconscious  of 
having  wrought  a  little  good,  of  having  lifted 
for  a  time  at  least  the  weight  of  misfortune  that 
crushed  one  life,  out  of  the  thousands  upon 
which  the  merry  stars  twinkled  blithely  that 
night — lives  which  no  optimist  would  dare  to 
consider  worth  the  living.  There  was  no  smile 
of  conscious  virtue  on  his  face,  no  warmth  of 
benevolence  in  his  heart.  He  merely  walked  on, 
unobservant  and  indifferent,  content  and  aimless, 
while  the  half-drunken  woman  with  the  piteous 
tale  of  starvation  cursed  him  obscenely  for  his 
hardness. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

IMPULSE 

So  William  Holdsworth  escaped  the  clutches 
of  the  law.  Early  on  the  following  morning  he 
went  down  to  Goldheath  minus  baggage,  for 
which  he  wrote  later.  He  walked  home  across 
the  heath,  full  of  confidence,  and  blithe  as  the 
birds  in  spring,  for  his  heart  was  a  poor  recep- 
tacle— care  never  nestled  there  long.  His  plans 
were  not  yet  formed,  but  he  felt  in  a  vague  way 
that  England  would  not  hold  him.  The  escape 
of  the  previous  evening,  the  excitement  of  those 
few  minutes  in  Crozier's  rooms,  followed  by  the 
chase  through  the  narrow  streets,  perhaps  also 
the  old  associations  awakened  by  the  sight  of 
Crozier,  old  memories  of  adventure  recalled  by 
the  singer's  voice,  cool  and  steady  as  it  always 
was  in  time  of  peril,  awakened  within  him  the 
semi-dormant  spirit  of  restlessness. 

This  spirit  was  upon  him  now  as  he  hurried 
through  the  keen  morning  air.  But  also  the  in- 
fluence of  Samuel  Crozier  was  with  him  still; 
the  only  influence  that  had  ever  remained  with 
him  for  an  appreciable  space  of  time;  an  influ- 
ence exercised  by  no  other  man  hitherto. 

The  runaway  sailor  was  grateful,  and  he 
296 


IMPULSE  297 

imagined  that  his  gratitude  was*  called  forth 
only  by  the  service  rendered  to  him  ten  hours 
before;  but  it  was  not  so.  The  debt  he  acknowl- 
edged was  that  of  a  lifetime;  the  influence  that 
subjugated  him  had  not  been  acquired  in  a  few 
minutes,  by  a  single  act;  it  was  the  fruit  of 
many  deeds,  the  result  of  a  great  effort;  and  it 
was  the  only  good  influence  in  William  Holds- 
worth's  life.  He  carried  it  with  him  through  the 
days  that  were  to  come,  and  in  all  human  proba- 
bility was  a  better  and  a  happier  man  for  the 
burden  of  it. 

But  as  he  walked  across  the  heath,  his  mind 
was  filled  with  another  thought  not  totally  un- 
connected with  Sam  Crozier.  The  singer  had 
told  him  in  very  plain  language  that  Elma  Val- 
liant  must  not  be  molested  by  his  attentions,  and 
now  that  the  spirit  of  adventure  had  hold  of  him 
(for  it  is  like  fever  and  ague,  which  may  be 
allayed  but  never  killed),  he  knew  that  he  did 
not  love  her.  In  his  strange  capricious  nature 
there  was  a  crooked  desire  at  work  which  may 
perhaps  have  led  to  this  conclusion  by  reason  of 
the  feeling  that  he  was  at  liberty  now  to  love  and 
woo  her  (Sam  Crozier  having  no  further  author- 
ity in  the  matter),  and  therefore  the  wish  to  do 
so  was  no  longer  so  strong.  The  incentive  of 
competition,  or  rather  of  pugnacity,  no  longer 
urged  him  to  give  other  men  trouble  for  his  own 
amusement. 

And — in  seeking  to  account  for  what  followed 


298  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

— let  us  give  ■him  credit  for  good  feeling,  for  a 
real  honest  desire  to  repair  harm  done.  We 
cannot,  or  we  do  not,  often  give  others  credit 
for  the  best  motives; — in  fact  we  usually  assign 
the  worst,  with  reason,  you  will  say.  Perhaps 
it  is  so.  But  let  us  give  William  Holdsworth  the 
benefit  of  the  doubt  in  this  case;  let  us  pretend 
for  once  to  believe  that  there  is  a  little  elemen- 
tary, sedimentary  good  in  human  nature.  Of 
course  his  action  was  impulsive;  the  words  he 
spoke  to  one  who  listened  to  them  greedily 
enough  were  dictated  by  a  mere  passing  influ- 
ence, a  flighty  warmth  of  gratitude.  But  im- 
pulsive good  is  better  than  no  good  at  all.  Had 
he  been  given  time  to  deliberate,  it  is  probable 
that  a  prudent  reticence  would  have  been  the 
result.  But  it  happened  that  as  he  walked  home 
that  morning,  with  the  excitement  of  the  previ- 
ous day  still  thrilling  through  his  being,  with 
gratitude  still  warming  his  heart,  and  with  the 
singer's  influence  still  upon  him,  he  met  Elma 
Valliant.  Not  only  did  he  meet  her,  but  circum- 
stances threw  him  into  her  individual  society  for 
some  length  of  time. 

Taking  advantage  of  his  absence  Elma  had  be- 
thought herself  of  driving  over  to  see  old  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Holdsworth,  and  had  chosen  this  bright 
cold  morning  to  do  so.  Had  she  seen  Willy 
Holdsworth  on  the  road  in  front  of  her  it  is  prob- 
able that  she  would  have  pulled  up  her  self- 
willed   pony   and   turned   him   round;   but  this 


IMPULSE  299 

chance  of  avoiding-  him  was  not  afforded  her. 
Her  road  ran  at  right  angles  to  his,  and  he  reached 
the  corner  before  she  did,  but  the  sound  of 
wheels  made  him  turn,  and  the  recognition  was 
mutual  and  instantaneous.  There  was  nothing 
for  him  to  do  but  stand  and  wait  for  her  at  the 
crossroads;  there  was  nothing  for  her  but  to 
drive  on. 

He  raised  his  hat  with  a  grave  smile,  and  with 
quick  feminine  instinct  she  gave  a  little  sigh  of 
relief  as  she  acknowledged  his  salutation.  She 
saw  at  once  that  a  new  humour  was  upon  him 
— his  mood  leant  neither  toward  love-making 
nor  merry-making.  He  was  therefore  not 
dangerous,  and  might  even  be  pleasant.  His 
eyes  were  steadier,  and  his  erect  carriage  firmer, 
but  beyond  these  details  there  was  something 
else — something  vague  and  indefinite,  which 
rendered  him  more  manly  than  he  had  ever  been 
in  her  sight  before. 

They  had  not  spoken  since  a  certain  evening 
when  events  had  occurred  in  a  conservatory  such 
as  may  be  of  small  account  in  a  man's  life,  while 
they  leave  a  girl  somewhat  different,  marking 
her  existence  with  an  immovable  milestone 
which  is  almost  a  turning-point. 

She  drew  up  with  a  little  smile  quite  free  from 
embarrassment,  and  held  out  her  gauntleted  hand. 

"  This  is  an  inglorious  way  of  returning  to  the 
paternal  roof,"  she  said,  lightly. 

"  Yes,'  he  answered,  after  the  fashion  of  a  man 


300  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

Avho  is  speaking  of  one  thing  and  thinking  of 
another;  "yes,  they  will  be  surprised  to  see  me." 

"You  have  come  earlier  than  you  intended, 
have  you  not?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  and  there  was  a  new  gravity 
in  his  voice  which  made  her  look  suddenly  at 
him,  instead  of  toward  the  pony. 

"  I  thought  so,"  she  murmured,  in  a  tone  which 
invited  him  to  proceed. 

"I  am  off  again,"  he  said,  moving  restlessly 
from  one  foot  to  the  other;  "  I  cannot  stand  this 
country-squire  life  any  longer." 

Elma  stroked  the  back  of  her  pony  thought- 
fully with  the  end  of  the  whip,  but  made  no 
comment. 

"1  am  glad  we  met,"  he  added.  "  I  wanted 
to  see  you." 

For  a  moment  the  girl  was  uneasy,  then  her 
eyes  met  his,  and  she  saw  that  there  was  no  cause 
for  any  such  feeling.  He  made  no  attempt  to  ex- 
plain his  outburst  of  passion  on  the  last  occasion 
of  their  meeting,  but  simply  ignored  it.  This 
method  is  scarcely  recommendable  to  young  men 
of  impressionable  hearts,  although  in  this  excep- 
tional case  it  was  perhaps  the  best  thing  Holds- 
worth  could  have  done.  But  as  a  rule  it  is  very 
dangerous  to  ignore  having  once  told  a  woman 
that  you  loved  her.  Apologize — tell  lies — make 
excuses — humble  yourself,  but  do  not  ignore  it! 
Whether  she  love  you  or  not,  she  will  never  for- 
give such  a  sin  as  that. 


IMPULSE  301 

"  I  have  something  to  tell  you,"  he  went  on  to 
say,  moving  away  a  few  steps,  and  laying  his 
hand  upon  the  horse's  broad  back  where  the  whip 
had  been  a  few  moments  before.  "Shall  I  tell 
you  now — on  the  king's  highway — or  shall  I 
wait  till  the  inspiration  goes  from  me  and  never 
tell  you  at  all?"  he  asked,  with  a  slight  smile  in 
his  blue  eyes  as  they  rested  candidly  on  her  puz- 
zled face.  She  raised  her  glance  to  his,  meeting 
him  kindly,  inscrutably. 

"Perhaps  you  had  better  decide,"  she  said, 
"so  much  depends  upon  what  it  is  that  you  have 
to  tell  me." 

He  stroked  the  sleek  pony  reflectively,  then 
without  looking  toward  her  he  spoke  with  a  cer- 
tain continuous  deliberation  which  allowed  of  no 
interruption. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  he  said,  "what  you  have 
heard  about  me — about  my  past  life,  1  mean.. 
Probably  a  little  truth,  and  a  good  many  lies.  I 
don't  want  to  know.  But  there  are  a  few  things 
I  should  like  you  to  hear  before  I  go  away,  be- 
cause it  often  happens  that  the  truth  is  not  so  bad 
as  uncontradicted  exaggerations  which  may  be 
only  half  believed.  I  won't  trouble  you  with  de- 
tails. Many  of  them  are  not  pleasant,  and  some 
there  are  which  are  better  suppressed.  People 
say,  Elma,  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  bad  luck. 
Never  believe  that,  never  believe  Ihat  a  man  has 
only  himself  to  blame  for  what  comes  to  him! 
There  is  something  else  at  work — something  rais- 


302  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

ing  or  lowering  his  life,  quite  beyond  his  reach, 
quite  outside  his  power.  Call  it  by  what  name 
you  like — Providence  with  a  big  P  or  luck  with  a 
small  1 — the  result  is  the  same  as  far  as  our  lives 
are  concerned.  Mine  has  not  been  quite  a  suc- 
cess, I  suppose,  in  fact  it  has  been  an  utter  fail- 
ure."    .     .     . 

He  laughed  shortly,  and  defied  her  to  contra- 
dict him  by  a  humourous  glance  which  was  really 
somewhat  pathetic. 

"Is  it  not,"  she  suggested,  " rather  premature 
to  give  a  judgment  yet  ? " 

"I  doubt  it,"  he  replied,  "  unless  luck  changes." 

With  ready  tact  she  avoided  raising  a  discussion 
respecting  the  much-maligned  little  word,  which 
he  repeated  so  often  with  a  certain  cynicism. 
Whatever  she  may  have  thought,  she  silently  ac- 
quiesced in  his  theory  that  human  lives  are  laid 
out  upon  a  fatalistic,  immovable  plan  which  no 
earthly  influence  can  alter. 

"I  can  honestly  say,"  he  continued,  "without 
thought  of  complaint  or  irreverence,  that  I  have 
had  luck  dead  against  me  from  the  beginning. 
Of  course  I  have  been  to  blame;  but  really,  Elma, 
really  and  truly,  on  my  word  as  .  .  .  let  us 
say  'a  gentleman  '  just  for  once,  1  have  had  con- 
sistent bad  luck  all  through,  and  people  soon  rec- 
ognize an  unlucky  man.  They  won't  help  him, 
and  often  they  won't  employ  him.  But  .  .  . 
there  has  been  one  man.  In  all  these  last  ten 
years  of  steady  progress  downhill,  I  have  only 


IMPULSb  30^ 

passed  one  man  who  made  a  grab  at  me.  And 
he  did  more;  he  came  down  a  little,  and  tried  to 
haul  me  up  again.  Time  after  time  he  succeeded, 
time  after  time  I  slipped  again;  but  he  never 
turned  from  me.  He  never  lost  patience,  and 
never,  while  our  lives  were  thrown  together,  gave 
up  the  attempt.  But  he  grew  hard — hard  and  un- 
merciful— he  lost  faith  in  me  at  last.  Perhaps  he 
is  by  nature  what  is  called  a  hard  man.  But  I 
know  that  he  spares  himself  as  little  as  he  spares 
others.  Things  have  been  bad ;  Elma,  I  have  been 
farther  down  the  hill  than  1  like  to  think  of  when 
I  am  near  you;  but  if  it  had  not  been  for  that  man 
I  should  not  have  been  here  now.  I  should  not 
have  had  the  chance  that  I  have  before  me 
now,  of  trying  my  luck  again.  1  was  once  a 
sailor    .    .    ." 

He  stopped  speaking.  The  reins  which  had 
hitherto  been  lying  loosely  upon  the  pony's  back 
had  suddenly  been  drawn  tight.  He  glanced  at 
her,  and  saw  a  slight  flush  upon  her  cheeks.  Her 
features  were  too  still  to  be  quite  natural. 

"You  have  guessed  who  it  is,"  he  said  slowly. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  looking  past  him  across 
the  heath — "Sam  Crozier." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?"  he  asked  sharply,  with 
a  ring  of  emotion  in  his  voice  which  was  very 
akin  to  pain.  "  What  made  you  guess  ?  Surely 
he  has  not  told  you." 

"  No,"  she  answered.  "No.  He  .  .  .  has 
told  me  nothing.     It  was  a  mere  guess." 


304  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

"But  there  must  have  been  something — some- 
thing to  make  you  guess  " — suspiciously. 

"It  never  occurred  to  me  before  this  moment 
to  think  that  you  might  have  met  before,  but  I 
have  always  noticed  some  points  of  resemblance. 
You  hold  yourselves  in  the  same  way,  and  .  .  . 
and  you  both  use  your  hands  quite  differently 
from  other  men.  I  suppose  it  comes  from  having 
been  sailors." 

"We  were  shipmates,"  said  Holdsworth,  as  if 
that  explained  everything.  "He  has  done  more 
for  me  and  attempted  more  than  any  man  on 
earth;  and  I  suppose  it  is  the  natural  consequence 
that,  now  that  it  is  too  late,  I  would  sooner  have 
Sam  Crozier's  esteem  than  that  of  any  man.  At 
first  he  began  by  liking  me,  I  honestly  be- 
lieve. When  I  got  into  trouble  he  pitied  me  and 
still  believed  in  me;  now  he  simply  despises 
me." 

"  Are  you  not,"  she  asked  softly,  "  making  out 
the  worst  case  you  can  against  yourself?  1  do 
not  think  that  Mr.  .  .  .  that  he  despises  you. 
He  is  too  just  to  despise  any  man." 

"It  is  his  justice  that  does  it,"  answered 
Holdsworth,  with  an  awkward  laugh.  "Unfor- 
tunately he  has  a  right  to  treat  me  as  he  does. 
He  cannot  understand  weakness  of  any  descrip- 
tion— and  1  suppose  I  am  weak.  I  know  that  I 
cannot  rely  upon  myself.  The  desire  to  do  the 
proper  thing  is  there  right  enough,  but  when  the 
time  comes  I  somehow  cannot  do  it.     Luck  is 


IMPULSE  305 

against  me,  and  " — here  he  shrugged  his  shoulders 
— "I  suppose  I  am  weak.  At  least,  Crozier 
thinks  that  I  am;  I  can  see  that." 

Elma  was  puzzled.  This  ex-sailor  was  beyond 
her  grasp  of  character.  He  had  puzzled  a  much 
deeper  thinker  than  her,  for  Crozier  had  striven 
in  vain  to  get  at  the  man's  real  inner  self.  There 
was  much  good,  and  really  very  little  that  was 
bad  in  William  Holdsworth,  but  the  blend  was 
so  irregular  that  evil  seemed  to  predominate.  He 
made  the  most  of  his  bad  qualities,  as  unam- 
bitious men  are  in  the  habit  of  doing;  and  with 
his  virtues  he  made  a  very  poor  show.  More- 
over, he  was  disappointed  in  life,  and  somewhat 
bored;  taking  a  queer  delight  in  boasting  of  his 
own  failures. 

"Holdsworth,"  Crozier  had  once  said  to  him 
from  the  quarter-deck  when  they  were  both  in 
oilskins,  which  sometimes  covers  gold-lace  and 
its  subtle  differences  at  sea,  "you  want  ballast. 
You  would  be  better  for  it  in  fair  weather  as  well 
as  in  foul." 

A  few  words  spoken  in  kindly  praise — shouted 
rather,  for  a  typhoon  raged  round  them,  and  the 
air  was  seething — at  the  successful  termination 
of  a  wild  feat  aloft  which  made  Holdsworth's 
name  known  on  every  ship  of  the  China  squad- 
ron. "  The  fellow  who  cut  away  the  Willow- 
•wrens  fore-topmast,"  they  said  on  the  quarter- 
deck. "The  d — d  fool  who  went  aloft  in  a 
typhoon,"  they  grumbled  in  the  forecastle. 


3o6  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

"I  do  not  think  that  he  is  a  hard  man," 
pleaded  Ehna,  examining  the  lash  of  her  whip. 

"  He  was  a  strict  disciplinarian  at  sea," 

"  But  is  that  the  same  thing  ?"  asked  the  girl. 
"  A  disciplinarian  is  as  hard  upon  himself  as  upon 
other  men." 

"Yes — he  never  spared  himself.  But  he  does 
not  make  the  least  allowance  for  difference  of 
temperament.  He  forgets  that  other  men  are 
not  like  himself — not  cool  and  self-suppress- 
ing   .     .     ." 

"1  do  not  think  that  you  understand  him,"  in- 
terrupted she,  thoughtfully. 

"  He  does  not  understand  me." 

Then  the  quick-witted  girl  began  to  suspect 
that  the  sailor's  words  were  not  prompted  by  ill- 
feeling.  He  spoke  against  his  former  officer  in  a 
peculiar,  insincere  way,  as  if  seeking  to  lay  the 
blame  upon  another  for  something  that  had  come 
between  them.  She  felt  that  the  spirit  of  enmity 
had  no  place  here.  There  was  another  influence 
at  work,  and  instinctively  she  hit  very  near  the 
mark.  There  was  in  her  mind  no  definite  thought 
that  Holdsworth  was  suffering  under  the  sting  of 
unsatisfied  gratitude. 

"  But,"  said  she,  "  you  tell  me  that  he  has  done 
a  great  deal  for  you — that  he  has  helped  you,  and 
— and  that  you  are  grateful  to  him." 

She  was  watching  his  face  now,  and  saw  the 
contraction  of  his  lips;  the  pained,  dissatisfied 
gleam  in  his  blue  eyes  as  he  looked  across  the 


IMPULSE  307 

heath,  seeing  nothing.  And  with  a  woman's 
quick  warm  sympathy  she  pitied  him.  She 
knew  then,  and  never  afterward  deviated  from 
the  conviction,  that  Sam  Crozier  had  made  a  mis- 
lake.  The  singer  in  his  strong  manliness  treated 
Holds  worth  as  his  own  equal;  treated  him  as  a 
man,  strong  in  his  convictions,  steady  in  his  pur- 
pose; giving  him  credit  for  two  qualities  which 
he  was  without.  She  felt  that  there  were  pas- 
sages in  the  lives  of  this  man  and  of  Samuel 
Ciozier  of  which  she  knew  nothing,  and  of  which 
she  would  in  all  probability  never  learn  the  de- 
tails; but  instinctive  judgment  (a  woman's  mo- 
nopoly) told  her  that  by  some  warp  the  better  na- 
ture of  William  Holdsworth  had  never  had  fair 
play. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  gravely,  "he  has  done 
more  for  me  than  I  can  tell  you — more  than  he 
thinks;  but  not  more  than  I  realize.  And  what 
is  the  result  from  his  point  of  view  ?  He  looks 
upon  me  now,  at  this  moment,  as  an  outcast,  a 
hopeless  vagabond,  a  failure.  He  will  never 
believe  to  his  dying  day  that  I  have  really  tried  to 
do  better — not  from  instinctive  desires,  not  from 
fear  of  the  law,  but  in  order  to  show  him  that 
his  pains  and  his  .  .  .  great  .  .  .  kind- 
ness have  not  been  thrown  away.  Whenever  I 
try  to  show  him  this  1  fail.  Whenever  I  come  to 
him,  it  is  not  to  hold  out  my  hand  and  tell  him 
that  he  can  take  it  without  fear  or  shame — it  is  to 
ask  his  help.     Only  last  night,  Elma;  not  twelve 


3o8  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

hours  ago  I  .  .  .  was  forced  to  go  to  him. 
He  never  suspected  what  it  cost  me  to  do  so — he 
never  cared  whether  1  thought  of  kiUing  myself 
first  or  not.  All  he  knew  and  all  he  saw  was  an 
outcast,  a  runaway,  a  criminal,  and  he  never- 
cared  to  look  deeper." 

He  stopped  and  looked  toward  her  suddenly, 
surprising  a  soft  and  almost  tearful  look  in  her 
eyes.  He  was  telling  it  simply  as  a  story — a 
mere  relation  of  facts;  but  she  saw  the  weary 
pathos  of  it,  and  the  old  time-worn  limit  that 
foils  all  human  attempts  to  make  human  life  a 
better  thing  than  it  is. 

"It  is  a  long  story,"  he  said,  apologetically; 
"1  don't  know  why  I  should  trouble  you  with 
it." 

"  Go  on,"  she  answered,  "  I  am  listening." 

"Yet,"  continued  Holdsworth,  "he  helped  me. 
He  deliberately  broke  the  law  to  save  me.  And 
as  usual  he  succeeded — Crozier  always  succeeds: 
in  the  end.  When  1  tried  to  thank  him  he  shut 
me  up  ...  brutally.  When  1  talked  of 
gratitude  he  laughed." 

The  sailor  laughed  bitterly,  and  waited  for  her 
comment. 

"How  utterly,'-  she  said  at  length,  very 
gently;  "how  utterly  you  have  misunderstood 
each  other! " 

"I  suppose  he  is  right,"  continued  Holds- 
worth,  after  a  pause;  "I  suppose  he  is  quite 
right     Of  what  possible  value  can  my  thanks  be 


IMPULSE  309 

to  him  ?  What  difference  can  it  make  to  such  a 
man  as  Crozier  whether  a  vagabond  be  grateful 
to  him  or  hate  him  ?" 

So  Elma  learnt  it  at  last.  At  last  she  reached 
the  root  of  the  affair,  the  base  of  the  widening 
gulf  that  lay  between  two  brave  men.  And 
there,  of  course,  she  found  Vanity. 

"He  told  me,"  continued  the  sailor,  "that  he 
did  not  do  it  for  my  sake,  but  for  the  sake  of  the 
ship," 

Elma  almost  smiled,  the  detail  was  so  like 
Crozier.  He  had  an  aggravating  way  of  screen- 
ing himself  behind  a  false  motive.  He  might 
profess  to  have  helped  his  shipmate  for  old 
associations'  sake;  he  might  even  persuade  him- 
self that  his  motive  was  no  higher;  but  Elma 
thought  she  knew  better.  She  knew  Samuel 
Crozier  too  well  to  believe  that. 

"And  you  believed  him  .> "  she  asked,  in- 
credulously. 

"  Yes;  he  meant  it." 

Elma  shook  her  head  with  petulant  impa- 
tience. 

"Some  day,"  he  went  on  to  say,  "he  will 
mention  my  name,  and  you  may  have  an  oppor- 
tunity of  telling  him  what  1  have  told  you.  I 
should  like  to  tell  all  the  world,  because  people 
do  not  know  what  Samuel  Crozier  is.  You  may 
tell  every  one  that  a  scamp  once  said  that  he  was 
the  finest  and  the  best  man,  the  ablest  seaman 
and  the  truest  gentleman  that  he  ever  met.     And, 


yjj  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

Elma,  remember  that  scamps  see  the  best  side  of 
human  nature.  If  you  should  ever  speak  of  me, 
don't  tell  him  of  any  protestations  of  mine. 
Simply  say  that  I  have  gone  away  to  try  again. 
If  ever  I  come  back  it  will  not  be  as,  what  Tom 
calls,  'a  returned  empty.'  I  shall  come  back 
with  clean  hands,  or  not  at  all.  Now — he  does 
not  refuse  to  shake  hands,  but  he  never  offers 
to." 

He  smiled  vaguely,  and  moved  away  a  little 
with  his  hand  upraised  toward  his  hat.  But  Elma 
stopped  him. 

"  Shall  I  not  see  you  again  before  you  go  ?" 

"No!" 

She  held  out  her  hand  with  a  little  air  of 
bravado. 

"  Good-bye  then." 

He  returned  and  took  her  fingers  within  his. 

"God  bless  you!"  he  mumbled  awkwardly; 
"you  are  more  charitable  than  Crozier." 

Then  he  raised  his  hat  and  left  her.  She 
turned  and  drove  home  slowly,  meditating  over 
men  and  their  ways.  A  week  ago  this  man  had 
told  her,  with  all  appearance  of  sincerity  and 
truth,  that  he  loved  her;  and  she  knew  now, 
without  shred  of  doubt  or  misconception,  that  he 
had  never  loved  her  at  all.  This  was  the  text  of 
her  meditations. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE    BUSHEL    RAISED 

Lady  Firton's  ball  was  as  usual  fixed  for  the 
Thursday  after  Easter.  This  function  was  an 
annual  affair,  and  young  couples  wondered  in 
that  suggestive  and  dangerously  melancholy 
manner,  which  is  the  result  of  supper  and  bad 
air,  how  many  times  they  had  danced  together 
in  her  ladyship's  drawing-room. 

To  Lady  Firton's  ball  was  usually  bidden  the 
latest  literary  star,  and  a  choice  selection  of  lions. 
This  was  not  because  her  ladyship  (a  sensible 
little  woman,  with  a  romantic  heart  of  her  own) 
loved  lions,  but  because  she  recognized  the  wis- 
dom of  providing  them,  just  as  much  as  she  knew 
that  ices  and  lemonade  were  necessary. 

Elma  Valliant  was  one  of  her  ladyship's  most 
reliable  young  ladies.  She  always  came  to  town 
immediately  before  the  ball,  and  spent  two  or 
three  days  among  flowers  and  carpetless  rooms, 
making  herself  generally  useful.  The  squire  and 
Mrs.  Valliant  usually  stayed  with  other  friends, 
and  appeared  among  the  first  arrivals. 

Tom,  of  course,  was  invited,  and  Sam  Crozier 
was  an  habitue  of  the  house,  and  a  special  friend 
of    the    clever  and   successful    diplomatist,    Sir 

3" 


312  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

Thomas  Firton,  who  was  reputed  to  speak  eleven 
languages. 

On  this  occasion,  however,  Tom  Valliant  re- 
fused. To  Lady  Firton  he  made  a  conventional 
excuse.  To  Crozier  he  laughingly  declared  that 
his  dancing  days  were  done,  and  to  Elma  he 
would  say  nothing  serious  at  all,  merely  turning 
off  her  questions  with  a  joke.  With  the  crowd 
Crozier  arrived.  He  made  a  semi-sarcastic  boast 
of  passing  anywhere  with  the  crowd,  among 
which,  however,  he  was  never  a  nonentity,  try 
as  he  might. 

Through  the  crush  he  ultimately  made  his  way 
to  Elma's  side,  and  as  he  shook  hands  noticed 
that  she  was  wearing  white  stephanotis,  sent  to 
her  no  doubt  by  Tom, 

"Are  you  really  alone.?"  she  asked.  "Has 
Tom  not  come  ?  " 

"No;  he  has  not  come." 

"Why    .     .     .     1  wonder?" 

"  I  don't  know  at  all,"  he  answered  carelessly, 
for  he  thought  that  Elma  knew  more  about  it 
than  himself.  "  May  I  have  a  dance  .  .  ,  ?" 
he  continued,  holding  out  his  hand  for  her  card. 

With  a  mechanical  little  bow  she  gave  it  to 
him,  and  watched  his  face  with  a  smile  of  amuse- 
ment as  he  studied  it  gravely. 

"There  is  nothing  .  .  ."he  said,  offering 
to  return  the  card — "  nothing  left." 

She  allowed  him  a  few  seconds  to  express  his 
disappointment,    but    he    said    nothing,    merely 


THE  BUSHEL  RAISED  313 

standing  before  her  in  silence,  holding  out  the 
card. 

"All  those,''  she  said  confidentially  at  length, 
"  marked  T.  V.  are  at  your  disposal — to  choose 
from,  1  mean     .     .     ." 

She  turned  away  from  him  to  speak  to  some 
one  else,  leaving  her  programme  in  his  possession, 
and  he  heard  her  say  that  she  had  no  dances  left 
disengaged. 

"Did  you  keep  these  for  Tom?"  he  asked 
incautiously,  when  she  turned  to  him  again. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  indignantly,  "but  he 
has  not  come  to  claim  them;  so,"  she  added, 
"you  may  take  your  choice." 

Without  a  word  he  gave  her  back  the  card. 
Over  the  delicately-traced  letters  T,  V.  he  had 
on  all.  three  occasions  written  deeply  the  initials 
S.  C. 

She  saw  what  he  had  done,  and  slipped  the 
card  into  the  front  of  her  dress,  with  a  little 
laugh  expressive  of  suggested  remonstrance. 

"Is  that  all  right.?"  he  asked  gravely,  before 
moving  away  to  shake  hands  with  his  host. 

"  No,"  she  answered  in  the  same  tone,  with 
however  a  little  twinkle  of  mischief  lurking  be- 
neath her  lashes.  "No,  1  should  think  it  is 
wrong." 

And  with  a  slow  smile  and  murmured  "  Thank, 
you  "  he  went  away,  moving  through  the  crowd 
labouriously,  for  he  had  many  greetings  to  ac- 
knowledge and  exchange. 


314  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

Later,  when  he  came  to  claim  his  first  dance, 
he  found  Ehna  in  the  same  dangerous  humour; 
coquettish  and  kind  by  turns,  sweetly  grave  and 
mischievously  gay  alternately. 

"Why  did  Tom  not  come?"  she  asked,  im- 
periously, as  she  took  the  singer's  arm.  The 
question  implied  plainly  that  she  had  by  no 
means  forgotten  that  this  waltz  belonged  by 
rights  to  her  cousin. 

"Goodness  knows,"  he  answered,  shrugging 
his  shoulders  hopelessly. 

"  C est  possible,  hut    .     .     .     do  yojc?" 

"No;  I  have  not  the  least  idea.  He  does  not 
care  much  for  dancing,  I  believe." 

They  began  waltzing,  and  the  floor  was 
crowded,  so  the  conversation  dropped  for  a  few 
moments. 

"Have  you  seen  him  to-day?"  she  asked 
f  ■'  esently. 

"Yes,  I  saw  him  for  a  few  minutes." 

"  In  town  ?  "  she  asked. 

*'Yes." 

"  At  Myra's  ?  "  ^he  persisted. 

"  Ye-es,"  he  answered,  with  some  slight  hesi- 
tation. 

At  this  moment  the  crowd  suddenly  increased. 
It  was  almost  a  block,  but  Crozier  detected  an 
outlet,  and  escaped  through  it,  reversing  and 
steering  admirably.  When  they  were  upon  a 
clearer  floor  he  laughed. 

"They   seem    to   be   rather  jammed    in    that 


THE  BUSHEL  RAISED  315 

comer/'  he  observed  in  a  lighter  lone,  which 
had  the  etfect  of  driving  away  the  gravity  which 
had  come  into  Elma's  eyes. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "we  are  well  out  of  it, 
thanks  to  your  seamanlike  manoeuvre.  1  suppose 
that  is  part  of  your  discarded  profession  ?" 

"  What — getting  out  of  a  tight  place  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"It  is  better  never  to  get  in,"  he  replied  gravely. 

"  By  the  way,"  she  said,  with  apparent  lack  of 
sequence,  "do  you  know  that  Willy  Holdsworth 
has  gone  away  again  ?  " 

"The  young  fellow,"  he  suggested,  with  in- 
nocent interrogation,  "  who  lived  with  his  father 
and  mother  near  Goldheath  ?  " 

She  did  not  answer,  but  looked  up  with  pecul- 
iarly unsteady  lips  into  his  eyes.  He  could  not 
understand  at  all  the  expression  of  her  face.  It 
was  a  strange  mixture  of  suppressed  laughter 
and  something  else — something  very  different, 
which  he  could  not  define. 

"You  are  splendid,"  she  said,  with  a  faint 
suggestion  of  reproach. 

For  once  in  his  life  he  was  taken  aback— all 
aback,  he  would  have  said  technically.  After  a 
pause,  however,  he  looked  down  quizzically  at 
his  own  apparel. 

"Yes,"  he  murmured,  complacently,  "I  think 
my  get-up  is  very  nice." 

She  did  not  laugh,  but  merely  gave  the  faintest 
of  smiles  as  a  tribute  to  his  wit. 


3i6  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

"If  ever,"  she  said,  "I  am  overburdened  with 
a  secret;  if  I  feel  that  I  must  tell  somebody  or 
.     .     .     or  die,  I  will  choose  you;  you  are  lik^ 
a  well." 
■    "  With  Truth  hidden  in  it?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "most  certainly;  with 
Truth  hidden  in  it." 

"Thank  you,"  he  said;  "but  please  explain. 
You  must  remember  that  I  am  a  little  dense.  1 
am  not  a  quick  thinker    .     .     .     like  Tom." 

There  was  contradiction  written  in  her  eyes; 
but  she  said  nothing  for  some  moments.  At 
last  she  made  a  little  movement,  dragged  slightly 
upon  his  arm,  which  he  promptly  and  correctly 
read  as  a  suggestion  to  stop.  They  passed  oul 
of  the  room  into  a  smaller  apartment  where  all 
was  quiet. 

"Willy  Holdsworth,"  she  then  said,  "spoke 
to  me  before  he  went  away." 

"Oh!"— doubtfully. 

"He  gave  me  a  slight  sketch  of  the  career— 
the  downward  career — of  a  rolling  stone." 

"Rash  man,"  suggested  Crozier,  uncomfort- 
ably. 

She  looked  at  him  gravely,  almost  impatiently. 

"I  have  acknowledged,"  she  said,  "that  you 
are  splendid;  is  it  necessary  for  you  to  keep  i1 
up  any  longer.?" 

"That  depends,"  he  answered  unabashed, 
**  upon  how  much  he  told  you." 

"I  think  he  told  me  everything — suppressing 


THE  BUSHEL  RAISED  317 

only  a  few  details  unfit  for  my  delicate  atten- 
tion." 

Still  Crozier  looked  embarrassed  and  somewhat 
doubtful. 

"You  can  dispense  with  the  bushel" — looking 
at  him  with  grave  meaning. 

"It  is  an  article,"  he  returned,  "of  which  I 
make  little  use.  My  light  may  flicker,  but  it  is 
fully  exposed  to  the  public  gaze." 

She  shook  her  head  in  contradiction. 

"That  is  hardly  the  pure  and  simple  truth. 
On  several  occasions  1  have  come  suddenly  upon 
good  that  has  been  done  by  stealth.  You  need 
not  deny  it.     I  like  doing  it  very  much  indeed." 

He  moved  restlessly,  and  looked  round  the 
room  in  a  vague,  smiling  way.  The  exhausted 
dancers  were  now  appearing  in  couples  seeking 
seats. 

"Please  do  not  look  so  very  solemn,"  he 
pleaded,  in  a  lowered  voice.  "These  observant 
people  will  think  that  we  have  been  quarrelling, 
or    .     .     ." 

He  stopped  suddenly. 

"Or  what.?" 

"Or  boring  each  other." 

Elma  laughed,  but  made  no  further  answer. 
For  some  moments  they  sat  without  speaking, 
then  Crozier  moved  briskly,  drawing  in  his  legs 
and  sitting  forward.  ■ 

"This  is  not  ball-room  behaviour,"  he  re- 
marked.    "  We  should  be  talking  weather  very 


^18  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

gravely,  or  nonsense  noisily.  At  all  events  we 
ought  to  smile  vapidly  and  look  pleased  with 
ourselves." 

Ignoring  these  weighty  suggestions,  she  spoke 
in  the  same  serious  strain. 

"He  sent  a  message  to  you.  That  is  why  I 
mentioned  his  name." 

"Indeed" — with  some  interest.  "What  was 
it.?" 

"He  asked  me  to  tell  you  that  he  has  gone 
away  to  try  again — that  is  all." 

Crozier  brushed  aside  his  mustache  by  a 
quick  movement  of  his  hand,  first  to  one  side 
and  then  to  the  other.  It  was  a  habit  with  him 
upon  the  platform,  or  when  he  wished  to  think 
deeply.  He  always  began  to  sing  with  that 
quick  movement  of  the  hand. 

"Nothing  more?"  he  asked. 

"No;  nothing  more." 

He  sat  gazing  thoughtfully  across  the  room  at 
nothing  in  particular,  while  in  his  deep-set  eyes 
there  came  a  melancholy,  dissatisfied  expression, 
such  as  always  shows  itself  upon  the  face  of  a 
man  who  is  looking  back  over  a  past  that  might 
have  been  improved.  There  was  no  actual  re- 
morse in  Crozier's  heart.  Indeed  he  would  have 
acted  in  the  same  way  in  like  circumstances 
again.  It  was  an  unfortunate  chance — that  was 
all — that  a  strong  man  should  have  become  the 
benefactor  of  a  weak  one  who  was  no  coward. 
Witl>  courage  Samuel  Crozier  expected  to  find 


! 


THE  BUSHEL  RAISED  319 

steadfastness,  and  found  it  not.  From  him 
Holdsworth  looked  for  a  tolerance  unnatural  in 
a  self-judging,  self-suppressing  man.  The  dis- 
appointment was  mutual,  and  its  influence 
stronger  upon  the  characters  of  the  two  sailors 
than  one  would  have  imagined.  It  almost 
seemed  that  they  had  not  met  upon  the  broad 
highway  of  life  by  mere  accident.  There  was 
something  more  than  chance  in  the  drawing 
together  of  these  two  men — both  born  on  Gold- 
heath — upon  the  high  seas. 

We  must  simply  acknowledge  that  human 
influence  goes  for  naught  in  this  existence. 
Man's  work  unto  man  is  nothing,  else  why- 
should  Crozier  have  failed  in  his  attempt,  pure 
enough  and  disinterested,  to  benefit  a  straggler 
upon  the  highway  ?  Why  should  they  have 
parted  in  haste  in  the  Blackfriars'  Bridge  Road. 
never  to  meet  again — never  to  learn  that  each 
had  done  some  good  to  the  other — that  the  mis- 
understanding between  their  finite  hearts  was 
also  finite. 

Elma  knew  that  there  was  woman's  work  to 
do  here — for  women  were  most  assuredly  in- 
tended to  patch  up  man's  faulty  nature;  to 
bring  men  together  and  soften  the  grating 
angles.  But  she  recoiled  before  the  task  which 
was  utterly  beyond  her  powers.  She  could  only 
tell  Samuel  Crozier  what  had  happened.  To  in- 
fluence him  directly  was  more  than  she  could 
accomplish,  though  she  almost  felt  herself  within 


320  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

reach  of  the  misunderstanding.  She  could  al- 
most lay  her  hand  upon  the  fault  and  say,  "This 
or  that  have  you  done  wrong;"  but  something 
held  her  back — some  strange  shyness.  And  so 
she  attempted  nothing. 

Presently  there  was  a  movement  among  the 
guests,  and  Crozier  rose  from  his  seat,  offering 
his  arm.  In  a  Cinderella  dance  men  seek  their 
partners  early,  and  so  there  is  no  time  to  be  lost. 

As  they  crossed  the  room  together  Crozier 
looked  down  at  his  companion,  and  said  in  an 
explanatory  tone  — 

"There  is  much  good  in  Holdsworth,  I  am 
sure;  but  somehow  he  has  been  unfortunate. 
The  good  has  not  yet  had  an  opportunity  of 
coming  out." 

She  made  no  answer;  indeed  she  could  not  do 
so,  because  her  partner  for  the  next  dance  was 
standing  before  her. 

They  did  not  again  talk  of  William  Holds- 
worth  during  the  evening.  There  were  other 
subjects  which  interested  them,  and  when  they 
parted  at  the  end  of  their  last  dance  together 
they  did  so  merrily  and  unconcernedly.  She 
upbraided  him  for  laziness  in  going  home  so 
early,  and  he  laughingly  replied  that  there  was 
now  nothing  to  retain  him  at  the  ball,  which 
compliment  she  acknowledged  with  a  gay  nod. 

There  was  no  slightest  premonition,  no  in- 
stinctive foreknowledge  that  they  were  to  meet 
again   before   the   dawn   of  the   next  day.     As 


THE  BUSHEL  RAISED  321 

usual,  Crozier  was  gravely  ready  to  fall  into  any 
humour  that  might  be  influencing  her — as  usual, 
she  was  gay  and  incomprehensible. 

He  elbowed  his  way  through  the  throng  with 
the  little  half  coquettish  nod  and  the  glance  of 
the  defiant  eyes  still  in  his  memory,  and  he  did 
not  know  that  she  was  watching  him  while  she 
talked  to  her  partner. 

Without  attracting  undue  attention  he  made 
his  way  out  of  the  house.  He  never  quite  de- 
fined the  feeling  that  prompted  him  to  leave 
Lady  Firton's  so  early.  Such  a  proceeding  was 
contrary  to  custom,  for  he  was  not  a  "blase" 
man  at  all,  and  being  an  enthusiastic  dancer  as 
well  as  a  keeper  of  very  late  hours,  he  was  usu- 
ally among  the  last  to  leave.  The  cheery  little 
hostess  did  not  fail  to  notice  his  early  departure, 
for  she  had  counted  upon  his  remaining  to  the 
second  informal  supper  after  the  guests  had 
left. 

He  had  a  vague  intention  of  "looking  up" 
Tom  Valliant — not  such  a  difficult  task  in  their 
small  Bohemian  world  as  one  would  imagine. 

When  he  passed  down  the  broad  stone  steps 
into  the  dark  square  he  found  a  long  file  of  de- 
serted cabs.  The  men  were  congregated  to- 
gether in  the  middle  of  the  road,  and  in  a  mo- 
ment the  singer  saw  the  reason  of  it.  To  the 
eastward,  over  the  denser  parts  of  London,  there 
hovered  in  the  sky  a  shimmering  glow  of  light. 

With   that   easy   sense  of  intercourse  with  a 


^22  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

lower  class  which  most  men  learn  at  sea,  Crozier 
joined  the  group. 

"Afire?"  he  said,  interrogatively. 

"  Yessir,"  answered  a  man  near  to  him,  "and 
a  big  'un  too." 

The  sky  was  all  rosy,  while  the  glow  rose  and 
fell  unsteadily.  Observing  this  a  young  cabman 
took  his  pipe  from  his  lips  and  expectorated 
energetically. 

■    "See    it    jumpin'.?"     he    observed.      "That 
shows  it's  near." 

"It's  in  the  Strand,  that's  my  opinion,"  said  a 
gruff  voice  in  the  background. 

"I  believe  it  is,"  rejoined  Crozier;  "some- 
where near  Bratton  Street.  1  am  going  in  that 
direction — who  will  drive  me  .? — a  hansom,  I 
mean." 

"I'm  your  man,  Mr.  Crozier,"  said  a  young 
fellow  who,  with  the  keenness  of  his  race,  had 
recognized  the  singer;  "  I'm  first  on  the  rank  and 
a  good  horse  too." 

Crozier  followed  the  cab-driver,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  was  rolling  through  quiet  streets  toward 
the  Strand.  He  had  directed  the  man  to  drive  to 
Myra's,  and  proceeded  to  light  the  inevitable 
cigar;  no  easy  task  in  a  brisk  southeasterly 
breeze. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE   FIRE 

Crozier  was  right.  The  fire  was  in  Bratton 
Street.  Moreover,  it  was  at  Myra's.  Fortunately 
the  theatre-traffic  had  been  disposed  of  before 
that  stout  lady  began  raking  out  her  grill  with  a 
crooked  poker. 

Mishaps  of  all  descriptions  have  a  peculiar  way 
of  appearing  almost  impossible  before  the  event, 
and  absurdly  easy  after.  The  front  of  the  grill 
fell  out,  and  the  burning  coals  rolled  upon  the 
floor.  One  reached  as  far  as  the  curtain  of  the 
inner  bar,  which  blazed  up  at  once.  In  a  few 
moments  it  was  wrenched  from  its  rings  by  Tom 
Valliant  from  within,  but  the  thin,  heavily  var- 
nished woodwork  was  already  alight.  Still  it 
would  have  been  quite  possible  to  pass  unhurt 
through  the  blazing  doorway.  But  Tom  did  not 
attempt  it.  Through  the  smoke  and  flame  the 
occupants  of  the  outer  bar,  with  whom  was  now 
a  policeman,  saw  him  return  to  Syra.  The  girl 
was  a  prisoner  behind  the  curved  bar,  surrounded 
by  brilliant  bottles,  decanters,  and  glasses. 
Against  the  little  doorv/ay  at  the  far  end  of  the 
counter,  the  flap  of  which  Syra  had  already 
raised,  was  a  heavy  box  containing  bottles  of 
mineral  water,  and  this  she  was  in  vain  attempt- 
323 


324  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

ing  to  push  aside.  When  she  did  not  come  to 
his  side,  Tom  glanced  over  his  shoulder  and  saw 
the  reason  of  her  delay.  Then  he  laughed — 
actually  laughed  with  the  smoke  and  flames  ris- 
ing all  round  him. 

"Wait  a  second!"  he  cried,  and  leaving  the 
burning  curtain  on  the  floor,  he  went  to  her 
rescue. 

In  the  meantime  the  policeman'  was  bravely 
fighting  the  fire  in  the  outer  bar,  but  it  spread 
terribly.  A  living  cinder  had  fallen  among  a  pile 
of  newspapers  beneath  the  counter,  and  these 
were  now  blazing,  while  the  thin  woodwork 
crackled.  The  man  had  nothing  but  his  water- 
proof cape,  and  with  this  he  was  endeavouring 
to  stifle  the  flames,  but  his  hands  were  badly 
burnt,  and  he  was  half  stupefied  and  blinded  by 
the  acrid  smoke  that  came  from  the  varnished 
wood. 

Myra  it  was  who,  standing  behind  the  police- 
man, still  grasping  the  crooked  poker,  saw  that 
the  two  occupants  of  the  inner  bar  could  not 
pass  out  because  the  floor  was  alight. 

"  You  cannot  get  through  now,"  she  shrieked. 
"  Go  back — go  upstairs!  " 

"Yes,"  cried  the  policeman,  as  he  staggered 
back  baffled  and  blinded,  "yes,  go  back — go  up- 
stairs! " 

Seizing  his  arm,  Myra  dragged  the  man  out 
into  the  street.  The  outer  bar  was  no  longer 
tenable.     Already  there  was  a  cordon  of  police- 


THE  FIRE  325 

men  forming  a  semicircle  round  the  blazing 
house,  and  keeping  back  the  excited  crowd. 

"Is  there  anybody  in  the  house?"  asked  an 
inspector,  hurriedly. 

"Yes,"  answered  Myra,  gasping;  "there's 
two.     They've  gone  upstairs." 

The  inspector  stepped  back  and  looked  up 
anxiously  at  the  windows.  Through  those  on 
the  first  floor  came  a  dull  red  gleam,  showing 
that  the  flames  had  penetrated  the  ceiling  of  the 
ground-floor.  Then  he  spoke  a  few  words  to  a 
policeman  near  him,  who  immediately  pushed 
his  way  through  the  crowd,  and  ran  up  the  street 
in  the  direction  of  Covent  Garden. 

The  inspector  returned  to  Myra,  who  stood 
silently  wringing  her  hands  in  the  semicircle 
formed  by  the  policemen. 

"  Have  you  much  spirit  in  cask  in  the  house  .^" 
he  asked, 

"Yes.  There's  forty  gallons  of  whisky  in  the 
cellar  under  the  bar;  and  there's  over  a  hundred 
dozen  of  different  spirits  in  the  two  bars  and  the 
cellar." 

The  inspector  tugged  at  his  chin-strap,  and 
glanced  uneasily  up  and  down  the  street. 

"Any  paraffin.?"  he  inquired,  sharply. 

"No!" 

"Nor  gunpowder.?" 

"No!  What  would  I  be  doing  with  gun- 
powder .?  " 

A  hoarse   shout  at  the  corner  where   Bratton 


326  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

Street  joined  the  Strand  interrupted  them'.  This 
was  immediately  recognized  by  the  crowd,  and 
greeted  with  a  cheer.  The  crowd  fell  back,  and 
the  first  engine,  a  "steam,"'  with  gleaming  brass 
funnel,  pulled  up  with  a  rattle  of  chains.  The 
men  were  off  before  the  horses  had  recovered 
themselves,  and  in  an  incredibly  short  space  of 
time  the  hose  was  run  out,  while  two  men  ran 
with  a  lighter  pipe  to  the  nearest  hydrant.  The 
crowd  cheered  again.  They  were  getting  ex- 
cited, and  the  inspector  sent  a  messenger  for 
more  men.  In  a  few  moments  three  more 
engines  arrived,  and  suddenly  the  assembled 
multitude  raised  a  great  ringing  cheer,  which 
completely  drowned  the  hoarse  grunting  of  the 
steam-engine,  which  was  now  at  work  literally 
jumping  at  each  throb  of  the  pump. 

The  reason  of  the  shout  was  that  Tom  Valliant 
had  appeared  at  the  second  story  .window. 
Some  broken  glass  falling  at  his  feet  apprised  the 
inspector  of  this,  and  he  stepped  back  into  the 
middle  of  the  street.  The  window  was  small, 
and  Tom  was  breaking  away  the  frame  for 
greater  convenience  in  getting  out.  When  the 
cheer  had  died  away,  a  dozen  hoarse  voices  were 
raised,  each  shouting  different  instructions.  The 
inspector  of  police  was  now  placed  in  a  second- 
ary position  by  the  arrival  of  a  district  chief  of 
the  fire  brigade.  The  nearest  escape  had  been 
sent  for  some  time  ago,  but  there  were  as  yet  no 
signs  of  its  approach.     A  few  minutes  more  and 


THE  FIRE  ^27 

the  two  occupants  of  the  small  room  upon  the 
second  floor  would  be  compelled  to  choose  be- 
tween a  jump  into  the  blankets  already  awaiting 
them,  and  a  retreat  to  the  third  floor. 

At  this  moment  a  fireman  approached  his  chief 
and  spoke  for  some  moments  with  him. 

''Well,  you  can  try  it,"  said  the  chief  at 
length,  and  he  turned  to  make  a  sign  to  Tom  to 
remain  where  he  was  for  a  few  minutes  more. 
Almost  immediately  the  fireman  reappeared.  He 
had  in  his  hand  a  coil  of  rope  sufficiently  stout  to 
bear  the  weight  of  two  or  three  persons.  The 
police  had  now  formed  a  double  cordon  across 
the  street,  completely  blocking  the  traffic,  while 
behind  their  dark  forms  extended  a  sea  of  anx- 
ious, eager  faces,  upturned  to  the  flames  that  lit 
them  up  luridly. 

It  seemed  almost  impossible  to  throw  a  rope 
from  the  street  up  to  the  window  where  Tom 
Valliant  and  Syra  were  waiting,  but  the  fireman 
was  an  old  Dover  pier-head  hand,  who  had  not 
thrown  ropes  for  five  years  by  day  and  night  in 
all  winds  and  weathers  in  vain. 

He  now  mounted  on  the  level  top  of  a  manual 
engine  which  quivered  and  throbbed  beneath  his 
feet.  Then  with  the  old  familiar,  "Standby!" 
he  adjusted  the  coils.  Looking  up,  he  rapidly 
measured  the  distance,  and  swinging  back  his 
whole  body,  he  threw  the  rope.  It  whistled 
through  the  smoke-laden  air,  freeing  its  snake- 
like coils  as  it  flew. 


J28  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

"  Hurrah !     Hurrah !     Bravo !  " 

With  one  coil  to  spare  it  fell  clean  into  the 
window,  and  Tom  Valliant  caught  the  end.  He 
disappeared  into  the  room  for  a  moment  and 
secured  the  rope.  In  the  meantime  the  fireman 
had  leapt  from  the  manual  engine.  The  rope 
had  to  be  drawn  taut  in  a  slanting  direction  up 
the  hill.  Had  it  been  allowed  to  hang  straight 
down  from  the  window,  not  only  would  descent 
by  it  have  been  impossible,  but  it  would  have 
been  burnt  in  a  moment,  because  the  flames 
were  darting  out  of  the  large  ground-floor  win- 
dow, and  the  frames  of  those  on  the  first-floor 
were  burning,  the  glass  having  long  ago  fallen. 

A  hundred  willing  hands  grasped  the  rope  and 
drew  it  tight.  A  man  of  ordinary  strength  could 
now  descend  without  much  risk,  hand-under- 
hand, swinging  in  mid-air.  It  was  merely  a 
matter  of  unusual  tension  on  the  arms  for  a  few 
minutes;  many  schoolboys  would  have  been 
willing  to  undertake  it  for  the  fijn  of  the  thing. 

The  upturned  faces  worked  and  twitched  con- 
vulsively, many  unemotional  men  talked  hur- 
riedly to  themselves,  some  shouted  aloud,  and 
others  spoke  to  those  around  them  and  were  in 
nowise  heeded. 

They  could  see  that  Tom  Valliant  was  explain- 
ing to  the  girl,  who  had  remained  singularly  calm 
throughout,  how  she  should  cling  to  him.  Then 
she  appeared  to  refuse  to  burden  him  with  her 
weight,  which  could  not,   however,  have   been 


THE  FIRE  329 

very  great,  because,  although  above  the  medium 
height,  she  v^as  slightly  formed.  She  shook  her 
head  and  appeared  to  be  urging  him  to  go  alone. 
They  both  leant  out  of  the  window  and  looked 
up  the  street,  evidently  in  the  hope  that  the  fire- 
escape  might  be  in  sight. 

Then  the  chief  of  the  fire  brigade  raised  his 
voice  for  the  first  time  with  all  the  science  of  a 
man  accustomed  to  making  himself  heard. 

"Come  on,  come  on,  my  girl!"  he  shouted; 
"you  only  have  a  minute  more!"  And  the 
crowd  heard  every  word. 

Valliant  was  seen  to  speak  hurriedly,  and  at 
last  it  would  seem  that  the  girl  gave  in.  Again 
he  instructed  her  how  to  hold  firmly  on  to  him, 
and  then  climbed  half  out  of  the  window,  with' 
one  leg  in  and  the  other  out.  The  crowd  was 
silent  now,  and  only  the  throb  of  the  engines 
rose  above  the  steady  roar  of  the  fire,  while  oc- 
casionally a  distant  whistle  rang  out  as  the  fire- 
men called  for  a  greater  pressure  of  water  on 
their  hose. 

Valliant  turned  sideways  and  stretched  out  his 
arms  to  Syra  in  order  to  help  her  out  of  the  win- 
dow. With  his  assistance  she  crept  out  and 
took  her  place  beside  him. 

"That's  right,"  cried  the  chief  of  the  firemen. 
"Never  fear!  " 

Valliant's  evident  intention  was  to  slip  off  the 
window-sill  and  swing  from  the  rope.  That  first 
wrench  on  his  arms  would  be  the  worst.     Syra 


330  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

was  to  place  her  arms  round  him ;  one  over  his 
shoulder  and  the  other  beneath,  clasping  her 
hands  firmly  together,  while  he  gave  her  what 
support  he  could  with  his  legs. 

She  had  actually  thrown  her  arms  round  him, 
and  was  sitting  on  the  very  verge  of  the  win- 
dow-sill, when  Valliant  suddenly  cried  out  some- 
thing which  was  unintelligible  to  the  crowd, 
although  the  words  sounded  like,  "  Look  out, 
Syra! " 

Suddenly  abandoning  his  intention  of  grasping 
the  rope  with  both  hands,  he  half  turned  and 
clutched  vaguely  and  unsteadily  at  the  frame- 
work of  the  window.  The  movement  over- 
balanced the  girl,  whose  hold  round  him  was  for 
the  moment  loosened,  as  he  had  fallen  back, 
crushing  her  hands  between  himself  and  the 
brickwork  of  the  window. 

Before  anyone  could  realize  what  had  hap- 
pened, there  was  a  sickening  crash  upon  the  wet 
pavement.  Two  policemen  rushed  forward,  but 
their  inspector  motioned  them  to  stop. 

"A  blanket,"  he  said,  shortly  and  sharply,  "or 
a  sheet.     You  must  not  try  to  lift  her!  " 

Very  tenderly  the  three  big  men  knelt  on  the 
streaming  pavement.  For  a  moment  there  was 
a  great  hush  as  the  awestruck  multitude  surged 
backward  and  forward.  Syra  lay  still,  and  made 
no  sound.  Silently  she  had  fallen;  silently  she 
lay  as  the  three  men  bent  over  her — for  they 
were  merely  three  men  now,  not  two  policemen 


THE  FIRE  331 

in  the  presence  of  their  superior  officer.  The 
dainty  figure  in  its  close-fitting  black  dress  was 
slightly  twisted  to  one  side,  the  arms  and  deft 
fingers  were  limp  and  nerveless.  The  white,  im- 
mobile face  bore  no  sign  of  pain.  There  was  no 
trace  to  tell  that  fear  had  crisped  the  features. 
They  were  indeed  perfect  now  in  their  great  re- 
pose, for  the  mouth  was  no  longer  twisted  side- 
ways and  upward  as  if  existence  were  an  effort. 
The  effort  was  not  needed  now,  for  Syra  was 
dead.  The  tenderness  with  which  she  was 
raised  and  carried  away  was  futile,  because 
earthly  pain  was  hers  no  more. 

In  the  meantime  Tom  Valliant  had  remained 
for  a  moment  balancing  upon  the  window-sill. 
Then  he  fell  backward  into  the  room.  He  must 
have  recovered  partial  consciousness  almost  at 
once,  for  he  was  standing  at  the  window  the 
next  minute.  With  one  hand  he  held  mechanic- 
ally to  the  window-frame,  while  the  other  was 
pressed  to  his  breast.  His  face  was  pallid,  and 
his  eyes  quite  dull  and  lifeless.  The  effort  was 
nothing  more  than  physical,  and  it  seemed  as  if 
he  did  not  know  where  he  was.  The  glare  was 
very  great  now,  and  he  was  visible  to  all.  From 
that  surge  of  frantic  faces  a  thousand  eyes  watched 
his  slightest  movement. 

The  chief  of  the  fire  brigade  looked  anxiously 
up  the  street.  "D n  that  escape!"  he  mut- 
tered.    "  Is  it  never  coming  ? " 

His  question  was  answered  by  a  distant  shout, 


^}2  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

and  the  tall,  weird  machinery  of  the  ladder 
appeared  at  the  summit  of  the  short  hill.  A 
hundred  onlookers  ran  to  meet  it,  shouting  as 
they  went,  and  pointing  to  the  window  where 
Tom  Valliant  was.  He  had  now  fallen  forward 
across  the  sill. 

As  the  escape  neared  the  house  it  began  to 
sway  and  totter  from  side  to  side,  and  the 
crowd  looked  up  apprehensively.  Then  sud- 
denly a  mighty  cheer  arose.  The  tall  red  ladder 
was  swaying  because  a  man  was  already  half 
way  up  it,  running  lightly  up  the  rungs  without 
however  touching  them  with  his  fingers.  His 
hands  were  round  the  uprights — a  way  they  are 
taught  at  sea. 

The  average  Englishman  is  an  unemotional 
being,  but  he  is  not  devoid  of  that  spice  of  life 
which  is  vaguely  called  the  devil.  He  requires, 
however,  the  society  of  his  fellow-men  and  the 
spirit  of  emulation  to  raise  that  devil.  It  is  this 
peculiarity  that  makes  him  a  good  sailor  and  an 
excellent  soldier — excitement  brings  out  a  sudden 
fierce  energy,  while  the  cool  independent  man  is 
behind  it  somewhere  ready  for  an  emergency. 
Nevertheless  it  often  happens  that  a  crowd  of 
Englishmen  is  no  more  self-contained  and  no 
wiser  than  a  crowd  of  any  other  nationality,  sur- 
prising though  this  may  be. 

A  trifling  incident  now  drove  this  mass  of 
people,  collected  in  Bratton  Street,  almost  frantic 
with  excitement.     This  was  nothing  more  than 


THE  FIRE  333 

the  mere  fact  that  the  man  who  was  upon  the 
escape  in  certain  peril  of  his  life  was  an  English 
gentleman  in  evening  dress,  with  a  white  flower 
gleaming  in  his  buttonhole. 

But  one  of  the  liremen,  an  old  blue-jacket,  had 
caught  a  glimpse  of  his  face,  and  saw  something 
more  there  than  a  "swell"  in  dress-clothes. 

"Boys,"  he  yelled  hoarsely,  turning  to  the 
crowd,  "that's  a  sailor." 

The  cry  was  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth, 
"He's  a  sailor!  he's  a  sailor!"  and  immediately 
there  arose  a  hundred  voices  encouraging  him. 

"Stick  to  it,  Jack!"  they  cried.  "Go  it,  my 
hearty!     God  bless  ye." 

"Ay,   d n    him,"    muttered    the    man   in 

charge  of  the  escape,  as  he  looked  up  to  take  his 
instructions  from  Sam  Crozier  far  above  his  head; 
"he's  a  sailor,  or  else  he  wouldn't  ha'  been  up 
there  before  me!  " 

The  escape  was  cautiously  wheeled  nearer  to 
the  house,  from  which  the  flames  were  now 
shooting  outward  in  forked  tongues.  From  the 
window  where  Tom  Valliant's  inanimate  body 
was  still  visible  there  shone  a  red  glare.  The 
fire  had  reached  the  second-story,  and  at  any 
moment  the  floor  might  fall  in,  adding  fuel  to 
the  flaming,  spluttering  mass  of  spirit-soaked 
wood  on  the  ground  where  the  bar  had  once 
been.  From  the  opposite  side  of  the  street  the 
firemen  were  playing  into  the  second-story  win- 
dows in  a  vain  endeavour  to  save  the  floor. 


334  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

Perched  upon  the  top  of  the  escape,  with  his 
legs  twined  firmly  among  the  rungs,  Sam  Crozier 
signed  with  his  right  hand  to  ^those  below  to 
move  the  ladder  nearer  to  the  burning  house. 
Nearer  still!  Right  into  the  flames.  Past  his 
head  seethed  and  roared  unheaded  the  glittering 
column  of  water.  So  great  was  its  force  that  if 
the  firemen  made  the  slightest  mistake,  swerving 
to  one  side,  and  hitting  him,  the  shock  would 
undoubtedly  have  stunned  him,  causing  him  to 
lose  his  hold. 

The  crowd  saw  Crozier  leaning  toward  the 
window  with  outstretched  arms,  and  then  there 
was  a  tremendous  crash,  shaking  the  very  earth. 
A  column  of  smoke  and  flame  seemed  to  envelope 
him  and  he  was  lost  to  sight.  The  second  floor 
had  fallen  in. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW 

For  a  moment  there  was  a  dead  silence  and  all 
stood  breathless,  while  the  fire  roared  and  cracked. 
Then  the  group  of  firemen  at  the  foot  of  the 
escape  shouted  aloud,  and  the  crowd  of  on- 
lookers, peering  over  each  other's  shoulders,  saw 
Crozier  standing  among  them  with  the  rescued 
man  in  his  arms. 

"He  is  a  friend  of  mine,"  said  the  singer  to 
the  police-inspector  who  had  come  forward.  "I 
will  take  him  home.  He  is  not  burnt.  It  is  only 
a  faint.  Let  me  have  a  man  to  clear  the  way 
through  the  crowd." 

Before  the  stalwart  constable,  the  tightly- 
packed  multitude  made  way  respectfully,  and  as 
Crozier  passed  they  greeted  him  with  rough 
words  of  commendation. 

"Well  done,  my  lad!  "  they  said.  "  Brayvo! 
You're  a  good  'un,  an'  no  mistake!  God  bless 
you! " 

Some  one  had  called  a  cab,  and  Tom  Valliant 
was  lifted  in.  Then  the  singer  turned  to  the 
policeman. 

"Here,  constable,"  he  said,  in  a  quietly  com- 
manding way,  "I  want  you  to  take  him  home. 
Number  5  Lime  Court,   first-floor.     This  is  the 

335 


336  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

latch-key.  I  am  going  round  by  St.  Antony's  to 
bring  a  doctor,  and  will  be  home  almost  as  soon 
as  you." 

The  man  leaped  into  the  cab,  and  Crozier  gave 
the  driver  the  address.  Then  he  shouldered  his 
way  through  the  crowd  and  disappeared  in  the 
restless  traffic  of  the  Strand.  Presently  he  left 
the  busy  thoroughfare  and  made  his  way  through 
several  narrow  passages  at  a  brisk  run. 

"If  I  can  only  get  there  before  he  is  called  to 
attend  to  Syra,"  he  muttered,  breathlessly,  as  he 
sped  along. 

The  broad  door  of  St.  Antony's  was  open 
when  he  reached  it;  the  night-porter  who  touched 
his  hat  to  Crozier  was  directing  two  policemen 
to  take  the  stretcher  they  were  bearing  to  the 
end  of  the  passage  in  front  of  them  where  a 
nurse  stood  waiting. 

"Is  Dr.  Leonard  upstairs?"  asked  the  singer. 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  porter — "he's  in  his 
room." 

There  was  a  broad-faced,  middle-aged  man 
upon  the  stairs  descending  slowly  with  a  smile 
(which  was  habitual)  on  his  face. 

"  Hallo,  Sam!  "  said  the  gentleman,  cheerfully. 

"I  say,  Martin,"  said  Crozier,  stopping  for  a 
moment,  "I  am  going  to  take  Leonard  away 
for  a  bit — you  don't  mind  taking  his  watch,  do 
you  ?  " 

"Not  a  bit,"  was  the  ready  answer.  "But, 
tell  me,  is  there  anything  wrong  ? " 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW      337 

"Valliant!"  cried  the  singer,  as  he  sped  up- 
stairs. 

The  middle-aged  man  whistled  softly,  a  single 
prolonged  note,  and  continued  his  way  down- 
stairs. There  was  a  nurse  waiting  for  him  in 
•he  passage  below. 

Crozier  found  Wilson  Leonard  in  his  room. 
1  he  young  doctor  was  smoking  in  a  deep  arm- 
chair, and  slowly  turning  the  pages  of  a  large 
scientific  work  which  was  fixed  on  a  movable 
rest  attached  to  the  chair. 

"  Leonard,"  said  the  singer,  "can  you  come  to 
Lime  Court  with  me  at  once.?" 

The  doctor  rose  from  his  chair  quickly. 

"  You — Sam !  "  he  exclaimed.     "  What's  up  ?  " 

"  Tom  Valliant  .  .  ."  was  the  reply. 
"Look  sharp,  man.  Tom  is  insensible.  He 
wants  you  badly." 

For  a  moment  the  singer's  voice  was  unsteady. 
His  deep-set  earnest  eyes  hesitated  to  meet  the 
grave  glance  of  the  young  doctor.  Leonard 
wasted  no  time  in  taking  his  hat  from  a  peg  be- 
hind the  door;  then  he  looked  round  the  room  as 
if  in  search  of  something. 

"What  is  it  ?"  asked  Crozier,  sharply. 

"  My  coat." 

"  Good  God,  man,  come  on!"  cried  the  singer, 
almost  fiercely.  "What  is  a  coat  compared  to  a 
man's  life  ?" 

Wilson  Leonard  had  known  this  grave,  self- 
contained   man   for  years.     They  had   been  to- 


338  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

gether  through  many  untoward  incidents,  as 
through  many  lighter  scenes.  He  glanced  anx- 
iously into  his  face  as  he  seized  his  coat  from  a 
chair  where  it  lay. 

"All  my  instruments  are  in  the  pockets,"  he 
explained  gently,  while  his  mind  was  busy  with 
the  thought  that  he  had  never  heard  Sam  Crozier 
speak  like  that  before.  There  was  a  thrill  of 
something  which  was  almost  fear  in  his  voice, 
and  Wilson  Leonard  heard  it  with  a  sudden  and 
unaccountable  misgiving. 

A  minute  later  they  passed  down  the  hospital 
stairs  together,  and  out  of  the  broad  door. 
Crozier  was  breathing  a  trifle  hard,  but  it  was 
not  from  the  exertion  of  running.  He  had  suc- 
ceeded in  getting  Leonard  away  from  Saint  An- 
tony's without  his  being  confronted  by  the 
mangled  body  of  Syra;  but  there  was  still  the 
news  to  be  told. 

"How  did  it  happen?"  asked  the  doctor, 
when  they  were  seated  in  a  hansom  cab. 

"Well,  I  was  not  there  myself,  but  it  appears 
that  in  the  midst  of  great  excitement  he  suddenly 
fainted.  I  will  tell  you  afterward;  this  beastly 
cab  rattles  so  much  that  I  cannot  make  myself 
heard." 

"Was  it  at  Myra's?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Crozier.  Then  he  recollected 
that  the  man  was  driving  them  in  the  direction 
of  the  fire.     He  jumped  up  and  put  his  head  out. 

"Go  round  by  the  Embankment,  cabby,"  he 


THH  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW      339 

shouted;  "the  Strand  is  crammed — and  go 
hard!" 

The  man  obeyed  the  instructions,  driving  with 
apparent  recklessness  at  a  quicl<:  trot  down  one 
of  the  steep  and  narrow  streets  that  lead  from  the 
Strand  to  the  Embankment. 

In  a  few  minutes  they  were  in  Lime  Court. 
Crozier  glanced  up  at  his  windows,  and  saw 
that  they  were  fully  alight.  The  policeman  had 
arrived  with  his  burden. 

They  found  his  helmet  and  cape  in  the  sitting- 
room,  while  the  door  of  the  bedroom  stood  open. 
Tom  Valliant  was  lying  on  the  bed  when  they 
entered,  and  the  policeman  was  bending  over 
him  loosening  his  clothes  gently. 

"He's  still  insensible,  sir,"  said  the  man, 
standing  erect. 

Wilson  Leonard  went  forward  and  leant  over 
the  bed.  In  a  few  moments  he  learnt  every- 
thing. 

"  How  long  has  he  been  like  this?"  he  asked. 

"About  twenty  minutes,  sir,"  answered  the 
constable. 

Then  for  the  first  time  since  they  had  entered 
the  room  Crozier  spoke. 

"Mrs.  Valliant,  his  aunt,  one  of  the  few  re- 
lations he  has,  is  in  town,"  he  said.  "Shall  I 
send  for.  her  ?" 

"  Is  she,"  asked  the  doctor,  without  turning 
his  attention  away  from  his  patient,  "the  sort  of 
person  one  would  send  for  }  " 


340  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

"  Yes,  I  think  so." 

"Then  lee  her  come." 

Crozier  passed  into  the  other  room,  followed 
by  the  policeman. 

"  I  will  write  a  note,"  he  said,  "  which  I  want 
you  to  take  out  and  give  to  a  commissionaire; 
doubtless  you  know  where  to  find  one.  Tell 
him  to  take  a  hansom,  and  drive  as  hard  as  he 
can  to  the  address  which  he  will  find  on  the 
envelope.  There  is  a  ball  in  the  house,  so  that 
he  will  find  them  still  astir." 

"Right,  sir." 

"In  the  meantime,"  continued  Crozier,  "here 
is  the  whiskey-bottle,  the  water  is  on  the  side- 
board.    Help  yourself  while  I  write  the  note." 

"Thank  you,  sir,  1  will,"  was  the  answer. 
"Such  work  as  we  have  had  to-night  is  apt  to 
unsteady  a  man." 

The  singer  nodded  his  head  in  acquiescence, 
although  his  hand  was  as  steady  as  a  rock  while 
he  wrote  — 

"Dear  Mrs.  Valliant, 

"Your  nephew  Tom  has  taken  se- 
riously ill.  He  is  here,  in  my  rooms;  and  the 
doctor  on  hearing  that  you  were  in  town 
asked  me  to  send  for  you.  Hoping  that  a 
change  for  the  better  will  take  place  before  youf 
arrival, 

"  I  am,  yours  very  truly, 

"Samuel  Crozier." 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW      341 

"  It  is  no  good  mincing  matters  with  Mrs.  Val- 
liant,"  he  reflected,  as  he  folded  the  letter.  "She 
is  not  that  sort  of  woman." 

He  was  thinking  of  the  gray  eyes  with  a  ring 
of  darker  colour  round  the  iris. 

The  note  was  despatched,  and  Crozier  returned 
to  his  bedroom.  Leonard  had  drawn  forward  a 
chair,  and  was  sitting  at  the  bedside  with  his 
fingers  clasped  round  Tom  Valliant's  wrist. 

"  Well  ?"  whispered  the  singer,  interrogatively. 

The  young  doctor  shook  his  head  significantly. 

"I  am  afraid,"  he  answered,  "that  he  is  sink- 
ing fast." 

And  thus  they  waited  for  the  advent  of  that 
dread  angel  whose  wings  were  even  now  over- 
shadowing them — the  doctor  seated  by  the  bed- 
side, the  singer  standing  beside  him  silently. 
There  was  something  infinitely  pathetic  in  the 
utter  helplessness  of  these  two  helpful  men. 
They  could  do  nothing  but  wait,  each  in  his  char- 
acteristic way — Wilson  Leonard  with  grave  sym- 
pathy, but  watchful  as  behoved  his  profession; 
he  knew  that  there  was  no  hope,  but  being  young 
he  hoped  still — Sam  Crozier,  self-restraining  and 
self-contained  as  usual.  During  the  last  hour  he 
had  passed  through  what  would  have  been  suf- 
ficient to  shake  the  nerve  of  a  strong  man,  but 
this  ex-sailor  knew  that  there  was  work  for  him 
to  do  yet — work  requiring  all  his  tact  and  all  his 
wonderful  nerve.  He  stood  there  silent  in  his 
strength;  not   unemotional,  not  hard-hearted  or 


342  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

unfeeling,  but  simply  mastering  himself.  There 
is  in  some  men  a  calmness  which  is  nothing  less 
than  density,  and  a  brutelike  incapacity  to  feel 
sorrow  or  joy,  but  his  was  not  this.  His  was 
the  outcome  of  a  great  courage,  and  an  unusual 
consideration  for  the  feelings  of  others. 

They  had  not  long  to  wait.  For  some  time 
Tom  Valliant's  breathing  had  been  laboured  and 
irregular.  Presently  it  simply  ceased,  and  the 
Answer  was  his — the  Answer  to  the  great  unend- 
ing "  Why  .?  "  which  haunts  every  human  life.  It 
is  hard  for  us  to  understand  why  life  had  been 
given  to  him  at  all,  why  unusual  talents  had  been 
vouchsafed,  why  a  brave  heart  had  beaten  in  his 
breast,  if  this  were  to  be  the  end  of  it  all. 

Here  was  ambition  held  back  by  a  terrible  cer- 
tainty of  unfulfilment — talent  wasted  by  the 
thought  that  there  was  nothing  to  work  for — love 
crushed  by  the  knowledge  that  it  dare  not  ask  for 
love  again.  Here  was  a  life  denuded  of  all  that 
makes  existence  a  joy,  for  in  that  vague  uncertain 
promise  which  we  call  the  future  lies  the  germ 
of  human  happiness. 

Tom  Valliant's  life  was  like  a  splendid  lamp 
with  too  little  oil.  It  lacked  an  essential  of  which 
the  absence  was  not  apparent  to  the  onlooker. 
Others  may  have  suspected  it,  but  \\eknew — knew 
infallibly  and  indubitably — that  his  existence  was 
without  a  future.  There  were  indeed  times  when 
hope  seemed  for  the  moment  to  have  overcome 
science;  but  science  never  dies,  and  never  sur- 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW      34? 

renders,  she  only  waits.  And  so  he  had  to  shape 
his  plan  of  Hfe  without  an  aim;  he  had  to  steer 
his  course  upon  the  dark  waters  without  a  light 
or  port  to  make  for. 

The  two  living  men  wondered  over  these  things 
as  they  looked  upon  the  pallid,  calm  face  of  him 
whose  task  was  done.  There  was  a  shadowy, 
vague  smile  upon  the  clean-cut  features — even 
death  could  not  drive  that  away.  And  they  felt 
that  that  indefinite  smile  denoted  that  he  had  the 
Answer  vouchsafed  unto  him. 

Presently  Dr.  Leonard  rose  from  his  seat  at  the 
bedside. 

"You  never  told  me,"  he  said,  "how  it  hap- 
pened." 

"No,"  answered  Crozier,  looking  at  his  com- 
panion in  a  curious,  searchi-ng  way.  "No;  I  will 
tell  you." 

He  paused,  and  withdrawing  his  hands  from 
his  pockets  he  rubbed  them  slowly  together,  palm 
to  palm.  This  man  never  attempted  to  beat 
about  the  bush. 

"I  did  not  tell  you  before,"  he  continued, 
slowly  and  deliberately,  "because  it  is  a  long 
story,  and  .  .  .  because  .  .  .  because  I 
funked  it." 

Wilson  Leonard  had  not  been  a  doctor  for 
some  years  without  acquiring  a  few  small  profes- 
sional mannerisms  and  habits.  He  was  unscrew- 
ing the  ivory  end  of  his  stethoscope  with  a  certain 
briskness  which  many  know  too  well.     We  all 


^44  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

have  a  professional  way  of  handling  the  tools 
which  our  craft  requires.  Watch  the  doctor  with 
his  instruments — consider  the  waiter  with  his 
plates.  He  looked  up  sharply  as  he  continued 
unscrewing.  The  action  was  that  with  which  he 
heard  of  an  undesirable  symptom. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.     "Goon,  please." 

"  Myra's,"  said  Crozier  simply,  "  has  been  burnt 
down.  St.  Antony's  fellows  have  prophesied  it 
for  years,  and  now  it  has  come.  Tom  was  un- 
fortunately there.  He  and  Syra  were  in  the  inner 
bar,  and  they  were  driven  upstairs  by  the  flames. 
There  was  a  delay  in  the  arrival  of  the  escape,  and 
the  only  way  out  of  it  was  to  swing  down  by  a 
rope  which  the  crowd  held  taut,  away  from  the 
house.  He  attempted  to  save  Syra,  and  would 
have  done  so,  but  he  fell  back  insensible." 

Wilson  Leonard  stood  quite  still.  He  was  care- 
fully buttoning  his  top-coat  in  a  peculiar  mechan- 
ical way.  He  pulled  it  down  in  front,  and  tapped 
his  chest  where  there  were  wrinkles  in  the  cloth. 

"And  Syra.?"  he  asked  in  a  toneless  whisper. 

For  some  time  there  was  silence  in  the  room. 
Crozier  moved  uneasily,  and  turned  his  back  upon 
his  companion. 

"She  fell,"  he  said  at  length. 

Dr.  Leonard  moved,  and  Crozier,  turning,  saw 
him  draw  the  sheet  over  Tom  Valliant's  face. 

"Where  have  they  .  .  .  taken  her  to?" 
he  then  inquired. 

"To  St.  Antony's." 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW      34^ 

Leonard  stroked  his  colourless  mustache 
thoughtfully. 

"  And  that  was  why  you  were  in  such  a  des- 
perate hurry  to  get  me  out  of  the  place,"  he  said 
softly. 

The  singer  did  not  answer.  There  was  noth- 
ing to  say,  and  he  wisely  recognized  the  fact. 
His  companion  now  crossed  the  room,  and  sat 
slowly  down  in  a  low  chair.  He  looked  up  spec- 
ulatively at  Crozier. 

"How  quietly  1  am  taking  it,  Sam,"  he  said, 
"am  I  not.?    Very  quietly." 

At  this  moment  they  were  interrupted  by  foot- 
steps, clear  and  loud,  in  the  solitude  of  Lime 
Court. 

"There  is  Mrs.  Valliant,"  exclaimed  the  singer, 
moving  toward  the  door.  But  Leonard  stopped 
him. 

"  I  say,  Sam!  " 

"Yes    .     .     .?" 

"I  would  sooner,"  said  the  doctor,  "have 
heard  that  news  from  you  than  from  any  man  in 
the  world." 

Crozier  nodded  his  head  in  vague  acknowledg- 
ment, and  passed  out  of  the  room,  leaving  Leon- 
ard alone  with  his  own  thoughts — alone  with  the 
calm,  restful  form  beneath  the  sheet.  He  hurried 
away,  with  all  a  man's  cowardice,  from  thanks; 
but  he  fully  recognized  the  meaning  of  the  sim- 
ple phrase,  which  was  at  once  a  confession  and  a 
mark  of  lifelong  gratitude. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

"BE  YE  THEREFORE   VERY   COURAGEOUS" 

Crozier's  note  reached  Elma  as  the  last  guest 
was  lighting  his  cigar  in  Sir  Thomas  Firton's  hall. 
Lady  Firton  had  just  dropped  wearily  into  a  low 
chair  in  the  drawing-room  when  the  servant 
brought  in  the  letter  upon  a  salver.  He  handed 
it  to  Elma,  although  the  address  was  distinctly 
written ;  but  he  knew  that  Mrs.  Valliant  had  left 
with  the  Barker  family  some  time  before,  and  the 
word  "immediate,"  written  across  the  corner  of 
the  envelope,  justified  the  action. 

Notes  do  not  usually  arrive  at  midnight,  but 
the  rest  of  the  house  party  were  too  well  bred  to 
show  their  astonishment.  Only  Lady  Firton 
looked  a  little  anxiously  at  Elma.  It  was  notice- 
able that  her  habitual  expression,  which  was  one 
of  capable  kindliness,  changed  with  marvellous 
rapidity  to  a  look  of  keen  anxiety. 

"It  is  addressed  to  mother,"  murmured  Elma 
to  her  hostess,  who  was  seated  quite  close  to  her; 
"but  I  will  open  it,  because  it  is  from  Mr. 
Crozier.  I  am  afraid  something  must  have  hap- 
pened." 

Lady  Firton  was  still  watching,  with  the  quick 
contraction  about  her  lips  somewhat  intensified. 
346 


"BE  YE  THEREFORE  COURAGEOUS"  347 

She  said  nothing.  Ehna  had  ah-eady  torn  open* 
the  envelope  in  a  dexterous,  fearless  way,  so- 
there  was  nothing  to  be  said.  But  Lady  Firtort 
noticed  the  fearlessness  and  the  quick  determina- 
tion. 

"The  only  thing  she  has  inherited  from  her 
mother,"  she  said  to  her  husband  later,  "is 
nerve.  She  has  her  father's  cheery  nature  and 
her  mother's  strong  nerve." 

Elma  read  the  note,  and  rose  quietly  to  hand  it 
to  Lady  Firton. 

"  I  must  go  at  once,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

Somehow  the  other  guests  had  dropped  av/ay, 
and  they  were  alone  at  the  end  of  the  long  room. 

In  a  moment  Lady  Firton  had  taken  in  the 
meaning  of  Crozier's  hasty  words. 

"  I  will  go  with  you,  dear,"  she  said  at  once, 

"No,"  answered  the  girl  earnestly,  "I  would 
not  think  of  such  a  thing.  My  own  maid  will  be 
quite  sufficient  escort." 

"  But,  my  dear  Elma,  you  cannot  go  to  a  man's 
chambers  at  this  time  of  night  with  no  one  but  a 
maid." 

"Mr.  Crozier's  chambers,"  suggested  Elma. 

"Yes,"  replied  Lady  Firton,  readilv  enough ;^ 
"I  know.  Sam  is  different  from  other  men,  but 
still    .     .     ." 

At  this  moment  Sir  Thomas  entered  the  room. 
He  was  smoking  a  very  large  cigar,  and  a  pleas- 
ant smile  came  over  his  bronzed  face  when  he 
saw  his  wife. 


348  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

"Tom,  come  here,"  cried  her  ladyship. 
*'  What  are  we  to  do  ?  " 

He  took  the  letter  and  read  it  slowly.  Then 
he  emitted  a  thin,  spiral  cloud  of  blue  smoke. 

"  Sam  Crozier,"  he  said,  with  a  sudden  change 
•of  manner,  from  easy  indifference  to  grave 
•energy,  "is  not  the  man  to  lose  his  head  and 
make  a  mountain  out  of  a  molehill.  This  letter 
means  more  than  it  says.  1  see  it  is  addressed  to 
your  mother." 

"Yes,"  said  Elma,  hastily;  "but  mother  is 
sleeping  at  Mrs.  Barker's.  I  must  go  at  once  to 
Tom." 

Sir  Thomas  glanced  at  his  wife.  Their  eyes 
met  for  a  second. 

"Yes,  my  dear  child,"  he  said  then,  "you 
must  go  at  once.  Shall  1  go  with  you,  or  would 
you  rather  have  Parkyns  the  butler  }" 

Elma  hesitated.  She  was  afraid  of  appearing 
Tude  to  this  diplomat,  who  seemed  to  divine  her 
thoughts  almost  before  they  were  formed. 

"I  will  tell  you  what  we  can  do,"  said  Sir 
Thomas,  without  waiting  for  her  reply;  "  you  go 
•off  with  Parkyns  in  a  hansom  to  Crozier's.  I  will 
go  to  Mrs.  Barker's.  If  the  house  is  shut  up  and 
1  cannot  see  your  mother,  1  will  go  down  to  the 
Temple  myself,  and  bring  you  home  here.  It 
may  not  be  so  serious  after  all.  Now  run  up  and 
put  on  a  thick  cloak.  Parkyns  will  have  a  cab 
■waiting  by  the  time  you  com.e  downstairs." 

The  girl  obeyed,  and  husband  and  wife  were 


"BE  YE  THEREFORE  COURAGEOUS"  349 

left  alone  in  the  empty  ball-room.  Sir  Thomas 
removed  the  large  cigar  from  his  lips  and  looked 
into  his  wife's  face.  The  expression  of  anxiety- 
denoted  by  a  contraction  around  the  eyes  was. 
still  there. 

"Is  this  an  incident,"  he  asked,  "  or  a  tragedy  ?" 

Lady  Firton  was  looking  at  the  bare,  smooth 
floor.  Here  and  there  a  flower,  a  bow,  or  ai 
piece  of  muslin  had  been  kicked  aside.  It  is- 
better  to  turn  out  the  gas  and  go  to  bed  as  sooa 
as  a  ball-room  is  deserted ;  the  sight  of  it  is  not 
cheerful. 

"  I  am  not  sure/'  she  answered,  "  I  cannot  telE 
at  all.  There  is  some  one  ;  I  only  hope  it  is  not 
Tom  Valliant." 

Sir  Thomas  had  Crozier's  letter  in  his  hand. 
He  now  read  it  again,  thoughtfully. 

"Yes/'  he  said,  "yes.  It  is  to  be  hoped  so, 
for  I  think  the  boy  is  dead.  By  the  way,  be 
was  not  here  to-night." 

"No;  he  does  not  go  to  dances  if  he  can  heip 
it." 

Sir  Thomas  turned  away  to  call  the  butler,, 
who  passed  the  door  at  this  moment. 

"You  had  better  go  down  to  the  supper- 
room,"  he  said  to  his  wife.  "They  are  all  there^ 
and  will  be  wondering  where  we  are." 

The  streets  were  empty,  and  the  cabman  di- 
vined that  pace  would  pay.  When  Parkyns  an- 
nounced that  they  had  arrived  at  their  destina- 
tion, Elma  realized  the  fact  with  a  sudden  throb 


350  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

of  fear.  As  they  had  come  by  the  Embankment 
she  had  seen  nothing  of  the  fire  which  was  now 
ahnost  under  control. 

Before  there  was  time  to  ring  the  bell  Crozier 
opened  the  door  himself. 

"  You!  "  he  exclaimed,  anxiously,  when  he  had 
recognized  Elma. 

Then  he  looked  over  her  shoulder,  and  saw 
that  her  companion  was  Sir  Thomas  Firton's 
butler. 

"Good-evening,  Parkyns,"  he  said,  in  a  singu- 
larly calm  voice.     "Just  wait  here,  will  you  ?" 

There  was  a  comfortable  chair  in  the  passage, 
and  the  butler  seated  himself  resignedly,  while 
Crozier  led  the  way  upstairs.  Elma  followed 
him  closely.  His  peculiar  hesitation  of  manner 
{as  if  for  once  in  his  life  he  was  at  a  loss  and 
<did  not  know  what  to  do  next)  puzzled  her.  In 
ii  mechanical  way  she  noted  the  characteristics 
of  the  room,  even  to  the  little  copper  kettle  in 
the  fender,  the  pipes  upon  the  mantelpiece,  and 
the  piano  laden  with  music. 

"Where  is  Tom? "she  asked,  looking  round 
the  room. 

"In  there,"  he  answered,  indicating  the  door 
of  the  bedroom,  across  which  the  curtain  was 
drawn. 

She  moved  toward  it,  but  he  was  before  her, 
imd  stood  squarely,  with  his  back' to  the  curtain. 

"  You  must  not  go  in,"  he  said,  gently.  "  Why 
did  you  come  ?" 


"BE  YE  THEREFORE  COURAGEOUS"  351 

"I  came,"  she  answered,  "because  mother 
had  left;  she  is  staying  at  Mrs.  Barker's.  Sir 
Thomas  has  gone  to  bring  her.  It  was  clearly 
my  duty  to  come  to  Tom." 

She  made  a  step  forward,  as  if  expecting  him 
to  move  aside,  but  he  remained  motionless. 
Then  she  looked  up  into  his  face.  Suddenly  her 
childlike  eyes  contracted  with  a  look  of  horror. 

"He  is  dead!  "  she  whispered.  "I  can  see  it 
in  your  face." 

In  her  excitement  she  laid  her  hand  upon  his 
arm.  The  sleeve  was  wet,  and  looking  up  she 
noticed  a  dull  black  mark  across  the  front  of  his 
shirt,  where  a  dripping  rope  had  dragged.  He 
took  her  hand  and  led  her  away  from  the  door 
toward  a  chair. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  slowly;  "he  is  dead,  and  that 
is  why  I  do  not  want  you  to  go  in.  There  is 
nothing  to  be  gained  by  it.  He  himself  would 
rather  that  you  did  not  go,  I  am  sure." 

She  was  hardly  listening.  Her  cloak  had  fallen 
from  her  shoulders.  Her  soft  white  dress  was  a 
little  crushed,  the  flowers  at  her  breast  were 
brown  and  withered,  and  she  was  very  pale  and 
weary.  But  there  was  a  look  of  keen  womanly 
scrutiny  in  her  eyes  while  she  looked  up  at  her 
companion. 

"What  has  happened?"  she  asked,  quickly. 
"Your  clothes  are  wet,  and  you  are  burnt. 
Your  hair  and  even  your  eyelashes  are  singed." 

He  passed  his  hand  across  his  face.     His  crisp 


352  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

hair,  his  eyelashes,  and  even  his  mustache  were 
tipped  with  white. 

"  There  has  been  a  fire,"  he  replied.  "  Myra's 
is  burnt  down.  As  1  was  coming  away  from  the 
Firton's  I  saw  the  glare,  and  knew  that  it  must 
be  somewhere  in  the  Strand.  It  began  in  the 
bar,  and  Tom,  who  was  in  the  inner  room,  was 
driven  upstairs.  He  tried  to  save  .  .  .  Syra 
.  .  .  and  would  have  done  so,  but  he  sud- 
denly fainted.  1  was  not  there,  but  I  was  told 
of  it.  I  got  there  a  few  minutes  later  with  the 
escape,  and — we — managed  to  get  him  out." 

"And  Syra.?"  inquired  Elma. 

"She  fell  from  the  window  when  he  fainted." 

"Killed  ?"  whispered  the  girl. 

"Yes.  It  was  the  second-story  window.  I 
brought  Tom  here;  at  least  I  sent  him  under  the 
care  of  a  policeman,  while  I  went  round  by  St. 
Antony's  to  bring  Dr.  Leonard.  He  never  recov- 
ered consciousness." 

Elma  was  seated  in  a  low  chair.  She  leant 
forward  and  stared  at  the  dying  fire. 

Crozier  suddenly  raised  his  head  and  turned 
toward  her.  There  was  a  puzzled  expression  on 
his  face,  like  that  of  a  man  who  hears  a  sound 
for  which  he  cannot  account.  There  were  tears 
in  her  eyes,  and  suddenly  she  began  to  weep 
gently  and  quietly.  The  dainty  little  lace  hand- 
kerchief which  she  held  to  her  face  was  never 
woven  for  tears. 

He  stood  with  one  foot  on  the  fender  and  his 


"BE  YE  THEREFORE  COURAGEOUS"  3^3 

right  arm  resting  on  the  mantelpiece,  waiting 
with  that  purposeful  calmness  which  was  char- 
acteristic of  the  man.  Presently  she  ceased  sob- 
bing, and  sat  motionless,  with  the  tears  still 
glistening  on  her  lashes.  Then  he  turned,  and 
his  deep-set  eyes  rested  for  a  moment  on  her 
face  and  form. 

"You  are  utterly  exhausted,"  he  said.  He  ap- 
proached her,  and  stood  for  some  moments  near 
her  chair;  indeed  his  hand  was  resting  upon  the 
back  of  it,  looking  down  at  her.  There  was  a 
sense  of  comfort  and  helpfulness  in  this  man's 
silent  sympathy  which  warmed  Elma's  heart. 
Then  he  turned  away  and  opened  the  small  side- 
board. With  the  quick  noiseless  movement  of 
the  hands  which  never  quite  leaves  a  sailor,  he 
poured  out  a  glass  of  wine  and  brought  it  to  her. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  and  obediently  drank 
it. 

At  this  moment  there  came  the  sound  of  some 
one  moving  in  the  bedroom,  and  Elma  started. 

"Dr.  Leonard  is  in  there,"  Crozier  hastened  to 
explain,  as  he  went  toward  the  door.  He  drew 
aside  the  curtain,  and  Dr.  Leonard  came  into  the 
room,  closing  the  bedroom  door  behind  him. 

"This  is  Dr.  Leonard — Miss  Valliant,"  said 
Crozier. 

Wilson  Leonard  went  forward  and  took  her 
hand.  His  eyes  were  very  sympathetic,  and  his 
grave,  melancholy  face  was  singularly  pale. 

"I  am  glad  to  have  seen  you,  Miss  Valliant/' 


354  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

he  said.  "Tom  and  I  were  great  friends,  and  1 
knew  that  his  heart  was  very  weak.  ...  I 
knew  that  this  must  come,  sooner  or  later.  He 
has  been  a  condemned  man  for  years.  I  never 
told  him,  but  1  think  he  knew  it.  I  am  almost 
sure  he  knew  it.  Some  people  may  think  that  I 
did  wrong  in  not  telling  him,  but  the  knowledge 
of  it  would  not  have  made  any  difference.  If 
doctors  told  all  they  know  the  world  would  be  a 
more  miserable  place  than  it  is.  If  your  father 
and  mother  wish  to  see  me,  I  shall  be  happy  to 
give  them  all  the  information  in  my  power." 

He  held  out  his  hand  again  and  nodded  to 
Crozier  as  he  turned  to  leave  the  room.  Before 
he  reached  the  door  he  staggered  to  one  side,  and 
only  saved  himself  from  falling  by  clutching  the 
sideboard.     In  a  moment  Crozier  was  at  his  side. 

"All  right,"  said  Wilson  Leonard,  huskily. 
"1  am  all  right.  It  was  only  a  little  giddiness, 
which  will  pass  off  when  1  get  outside." 

He  pushed  Crozier's  arm  aside  almost  roughly, 
and  passed  out  of  the  room.  They  heard  him 
close  the  door,  and  immediately  afterward  his 
footsteps  rang  out  firmly  and  clearly  on  the  pave- 
ment of  Lime  Court. 

"  He  has  had  bad  news  to-night,"  said  Crozier, 
when  the  sound  had  died  away. 

With  womanly  intuition  Elma  connected  Wil- 
son Leonard's  bad  news  with  the  fire  at  Myra's. 

"Tom  once  told  me,"  she  said,  gently,  "about 
Syra.     Was  it  Dr.  Leonard  .^" 


"BE  YE  THEREFORE  COURAGEOUS"  355 

"Yes,"  answered  the  singer;  "it  was  Dr. 
Leonard." 

Tiiey  were  botii  silent  for  some  time.  Perliaps 
they  were  thinking  how  promptly  Wilson 
Leonard  had  come  to  his  friend's  side;  how  en- 
tirely he  had  set  aside  his  own  weariness  and 
want  of  rest;  how  the  man  had  given  place  to 
the  doctor. 

"1  think,"  said  Elma  at  length,  in  little  more 
than  a  whisper,  "that  Tom  knew.  It  would 
explain  many  things  which  I  did  not  understand 
before." 

Crozier  recalled  the  conversation  he  had  had 
with  Tom  Valliant  not  so  very  long  before,  about 
the  girl  seated  there  within  a  few  yards  of  the 
man  who  had  loved  her. 

"Yes,"  he  answered;  "it  would  explain  many 
things." 

"That  is  why  he  would  not  take  up  any  work 
seriously,"  continued  the  girl;  "why  he  was  so 
utterly  indifferent  about  the  future."  .  .  .  She 
stopped,  and  looked  up  toward  her  companion 
with  a  wistful  smile.  ' '  That  is  why, "  she  added, 
"he  always  talks  of  the  phantom  future — used 
to  talk,  I  mean." 

She  glanced  toward  the  bedroom  door,  as  if 
half  expecting  Tom  Valliant  to  draw  aside  the 
curtain  and  greet  them  with  his  quick  smile,  and 
some  merry  suggestion.  Death  seemed  so  far 
from  him  in  whom  a  bright  vitality  was  never 
wanting.     It   was    indeed    hard    to   realize  that 


356  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

the  mobile  and  dancing  eyes  were  closed  for 
ever. 

"If  he  did  know  it,"  said  Crozier,  "he  was 
very  plucky  about  it." 

"Yes;  he  concealed  his  knowledge  very 
bravely.  Do  you  remember,  once  long  ago  1 
told  you  that  1  thought  his  merriment  was  not 
quite  sincere?" 

"  Yes,  1  remember." 

"He  must  have  known  then,"  murmured  the 
girl,  thoughtfully. 

He  did  not  answer  her,  and  they  relapsed  into 
silence.  Both  were  recalling  a  thousand  inci- 
dents which  rose  before  their  mental  vision,  now 
that  it  was  cleared  by  knowledge,  in  evidence  of 
the  fact  that  Tom  Valliant  knew,  and  had  known 
for  years,  that  he  was  a  doomed  man.  Such 
knowledge  is  one  of  the  saddest  things  that  hu- 
man life  contains,  which,  God  knows,  is  saying 
a  good  deal,  and  science  has  assuredly  done  us 
doubtful  service  in  this  matter. 

Elma's  great  calmness  puzzled  Crozier.  He 
had  always  taken  it  for  granted  that  she  loved  the 
man  who  lay  dead  in  the  other  room.  He  had, 
in  a  desultory  way,  concluded  that  she  was  wait- 
ing for  Tom  Valliant  to  declare  his  love,  and  now 
he  knew  why  his  friend  had  kept  silence  on  this 
point.  Such,  in  truth,  it  had  been,  for  he  had 
suspected  that  Elma's  love  was  within  his  reach 
had  he  stretched  out  his  hand.  But  he  was  with- 
held— withheld  by  the  knowledge  that  in  manly 


''BE  YE  THEREFORE  COURAGEOUS"  357 

honour  and  fairness  he  had  no  right  to  speak  of 
love  to  any  woman ;  that  the  future  was  indeed 
a  phantom. 

"1  wonder,"  meditated  Crozier,  following  out 
his  own  thoughts  with  regard  to  Elma,  "  I 
wonder  if  I  have  been  on  the  wrong  track  for 
5;ears.     1  wonder  if  1  have  made  a  great  mistake." 

Before  the  silence  was  again  broken  there  was 
a  sound  of  footsteps  in  the  passage,  and  shortly 
afterward  a  light  tread  upon  the  stairs.  The  door 
was  opened  quietly,  and  Sir  Thomas  Firton  en- 
tered. He  glanced  at  both  occupants  of  the  room 
in  a  quick,  comprehensive  way,  and  then  he 
turned  to  Crozier.  He  raised  his  eyebrows  inter- 
rogatively, and  at  the  same  time  his  lips  framed 
the  monosyllable  — 

"Dead.^" 

The  singer  nodded  his  head. 

Then  Sir  Thomas  went  to  Elma's  side.  If 
Crozier  had  made  a  mistake,  he  was  not  alone  in 
his  error. 

"I  could  not  bring  your  mother,"  said  Sir 
Thomas.  "The  house  was  shut  up.  Come 
home  with  me  now;  you  can  do  nothing  more." 

She  rose  and  took  the  cloak  which  the  singer 
laid  gently  upon  her  shoulders.  There  are  some 
women  who  seem  destined  never  to  realize  the 
pathos  of  life.  It  is  not  that  they  are  devoid  of 
feeling  or  sympathy,  but  in  their  sunny  natures 
there  is  a  fund  of  innocence  and  sweetness  which 
never  turns  to  sorrow  or  disappointment.     They 


338  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

cannot  believe  in  the  evil  of  human  nature;  they 
never  quite  comprehend  that  life  is  real  and  ear- 
nest. Of  these  was  Elma  Valliant.  To  such  fair 
optimists  as  this,  men  and  women  unconsciously 
make  the  best  of  things,  seeking  to  detract  from 
sorrow,  surrounding  them  with  the  elements  of 
human  happiness.  Thus  it  happened  that  Sir 
Thomas  Firton  and  Samuel  Crozier  played  into 
each  other's  hands — as  men  sometimes  do — in- 
stinctively. Although  Death  was  within  a  few 
yards  of  them,  although  the  singer  had  looked 
upon  it  in  all  its  grim  reality  a  few  minutes  be- 
fore, they  avoided,  by  tacit  consent,  adding  to 
its  horror  by  lowered  voice  or  awestruck  manner. 

It  may  be  that  Elma  divined  their  intention, 
when  she  said  to  Sir  Thomas,  "  It  is  very  good  of 
you  to  take  so  much  trouble.  You  are  both  very 
kind  to  me." 

Her  eyes  were  still  a  little  red  from  recent 
tears,  and  as  Sir  Thomas  had  said,  she  was  ut- 
terly worn  out  between  pleasure  and  pain. 
Crozier  accompanied  them  downstairs,  and  held 
open  the  door.  Parkyns  went  on  in  front  to 
call  the  cab.  Sir  Thomas  walked  gravely  down 
the  worn  stone  steps,  and  Elma  followed  him. 
Then  suddenly  she  turned  back,  and  running  up 
again  stood  beside  Crozier  in  the  doorway. 

"  Are  you  quite  sure,"  she  asked  in  a  whisper, 
"  that  you  are  not  burnt  or  hurt  in  any  way  ?" 

"  Quite  sure,"  he  replied,  looking  down  at  her 
with  his  slow  smile. 


"BE  YE  THEREFORE  COURAGEOUS"  3^9 

She  left  him  with  a  little  nod — left  him  stand- 
ing upon  the  top  step,  but  he  was  quite  grave 
now,  the  smile  had  vanished  from  his  face. 
While  he  still  stood  there,  the  voice  of  Big  Ben 
came  echoing  over  the  roofs;  it  was  two  o'clock. 
In  less  than  two  hours  it  would  be  daylight. 

The  singer  turned  and  mounted  the  stairs 
slowly.  Standing  on  the  hearth-rug  before  the 
glowing  cinders,  he  leisurely  passed  his  hands 
over  his  arms  and  shoulders.  His  clothes  were 
almost  dry  now,  and  he  had  a  nautical  disregard 
for  clean  water.  Nevertheless  he  reflected  indefi- 
nitely, that  the  fireman  upon  the  opposite  roof 
need  not  have  directed  his  hose  toward  the  burn- 
ing window  just  as  he  reached  it. 

He  glanced  toward  the  closed  door  of  the  bed- 
room, then  he  boldly  crossed  the  room,  and 
drawing  aside  the  curtain  he  opened  the  door 
and  crossed  its  threshold.  Presently  he  returned, 
having  exchanged  his  dress-coat  for  a  short 
jacket.  Then  he  settled  himself  in  his  deep  arm- 
chair with  the  evident  intention  of  sleeping  there. 
But  he  was  restless,  and  slumber  failed  to  an- 
swer his  call.  He  moved  impatiently  once  or 
twice,  and  finally  sat  forward  with  his  elbows 
upon  his  knees. 

"I  wonder,"  he  said,  murmuring  to  himself, 
"whether  I  have  been  making  a  huge  mistake 
all  along." 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

GOLDHEATH   AGAIN 

Crozier  was  not  an  impulsive  man,  but  at 
times  it  pleased  him  to  imagine  himself  to  be 
such.  His  habit  was  to  make  up  his  mind 
slowly  and  very  surely;  and  once  made  up  it 
was  as  the  laws  of  the  Medes  and  Persians.  His 
mistakes — for  we  all  have  them  to  look  brck  to, 
— came  rather  from  placing  both  sides  of  a  ques- 
tion upon  too  equal  a  footing,  than  from  a  rash 
adoption-  of  the  course  that  for  a  moment  ap- 
peared more  expedient. 

When,  therefore,  he  stood  one  fair  and  sunny 
May  morning  at  his  window,  and  attempted  to 
deceive  himself  into  the  belief  that  he  was  in  an 
undecided  frame  of  mind,  the  result  was  not  en- 
tirely satisfactory.  His  mind  had  been  made  up 
for  weeks,  almost  stretching  into  months.  The 
day  had  come  for  which  he  had  been  patiently 
waiting — that  was  all — a  fair  spring  morning, 
when  men's  hearts  are  bold  and  women's  soft. 
Moreover,  he  felt  energetic,  and  there  ran  in  his 
veins  that  subtle  fire  which  imbues  confidence 
and  commands  success.  He  felt  that  whatever 
he  attempted  to-day  would  be  satisfactory. 

"  I  think  I  shall  go  to  Goldheath,"  he  said,  "  I 
think  I  shall  go  to  Goldheath  to-day!" 
360 


GOLDHEATH  AGAIN  361 

The  deception  was  glaringly  obvious.  There 
was  no  thinking  in  the  matter.  He  knew  that 
there  was  half  an  hour  yet  before  he  need  start, 
and  he  therefore  stood  lazily  smoking,  absently 
gazing  down  into  the  court  where  the  shadow  of 
the  old  lime-tree  lay  in  fantastic  patterns  upon 
the  pavement.  The  leaves  were  out  and  fully 
formed,  but  were  yet  delicate  in  their  texture  and 
thin  and  bright  in  spring-like  hues,  so  that  the 
sun  glancing  over  the  tiled  roofs  threw  golden 
gleams  among  the  branches  and  soft  hazy  yellow 
shades.  The  ubiquitous  London  smut  had  not 
as  yet  taken  up  his  lodging  to  any  great  extent 
upon  leaf  and  stalk  (though  the  seasoned  wood 
was  woefully  black),  so  that  the  toilers  of  Lime 
Court  and  idlers  of  the  same  could  glance  out  of 
their  dirty  windows  and  learn  most  unmistakably 
that  spring  was  now  established  in  the  land. 
The  legal  sparrow  knew  this  also,  and  held  May 
meetings  on  the  smutty  branches  from  early 
morning  until  sunset.  He  did  not  sleep  beneath 
the  leafy  roof  because  his  town-bred  feet  were 
unaccustomed  to  a  slumberous  grip  of  round 
things;  preferred  something  flat,  with  the  warm 
corner  of  a  chimney  to  lean  against  and  be  thank- 
ful for,  about  three  o'clock  ante-meridian.  But 
he  came  down  from  the  roofs  and  called  his 
friends,  and  set  up  a  restless  chattering  and  a 
hopping  from  twig  to  twig,  while  all  the  neigh- 
bourhood's cats  prowled  around  with  murderous 
thought  intent.     For  even  spring  (in  addition  to 


362  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

the  battle  that  hovers  round  love)  breathes  murder 
and  sudden  death. 

The  singer  looked  down  upon  these  signs  of 
joyous  life,  and  listened  vaguely  to  the  sparrows' 
voice.  With  his  hands  thrust  deeply  into  his 
pockets  he  stood  upright,  and  while  smoking  the 
everlasting  wooden  pipe,  thought  gently  over  the 
possibilities  of  life,  taken  from  the  point  of  view 
of  a  strong  man  of  thirty  years.  Of  late  he  had 
acquired  this  evil  habit  of  allowing  himself  to  re- 
flect upon  abstract  things  and  possibilities.  He 
Vv'as  no  longer  nervously  active,  anxiously  studi- 
ous; and  some  people  thought  that  he  was  sing- 
ing better  than  ever,  although  he  confessed  to 
being  too  lazy  to  learn  so  many  new  songs  as 
publishers  might  desire. 

The  yawl  was  purchased,  and  once  or  twice 
during  the  spring  its  owner  had  run  down  to 
Cowes  to  superintend  her  fitting-out  in  the 
Medina,  but  no  plans  were  yet  made  for  sailing 
her,  no  voyages  proposed. 

Professionally  the  singer  was  in  a  better  posi- 
tion than  before.  He  had  always  been  particular 
in  the  choice  of  his  engagements,  and  his  reputa- 
tion now  gained  by  this.  One  or  two  important 
concerts,  patronized  and  attended  by  Royalty, 
had  served  to  consolidate  his  name,  and  now  he 
had  the  pick  of  the  musical  world.  With  his  old 
heedlessness  he  accepted  or  refused  engagements 
as  the  spirit  moved  him,  quite  regardless  of  per- 
sonal influence;  and  with  his  former  generosity 


GOLDHEATH  AGAIN  36^ 

he  offered  his  services  in  unexpected  quarters 
when  it  was  a  question  of  pure  charity. 

Men  spoke  of  "old  Sam"  with  the  same 
familiar  affection  as  of  yore,  and  it  was  soon 
almost  forgotten  that  he  was  a  rich  man;  that  he 
did  not  belong  at  all  to  the  improvident  world  of 
artists,  journalists  and  play-writers,  who  made 
merry  over  misfortune  and  their  wasted  lives  in 
the  busy  circle  which  is  the  inner  hub  of  London 
life;  where  night  and  day  are  as  one;  where 
mind  and  body  are  never  quite  at  rest;  and 
within  whose  charmed  ring  more  genius  has 
assuredly  lived  and  died  than  in  all  England 
beside. 

Homesick  foreigners,  hospital-sick  students, 
and  life-sick  strugglers  of  all  sorts  dropped  in; 
casually  at  No.  5  Lime  Court,  as  they  had  always 
done,  and  went  away  from  the  door  later  feeling 
glad  that  they  done  so.  No  meal-time,  no  hour 
of  night  or  day  was  sacred — one  could  always 
find  Samuel  Crozier,  and  he  never  appeared  too 
much  occupied  to  spare  a  few  minutes  to  help  by 
word  or  deed  his  fellow-men. 

While  he  was  still  standing  at  the  window, 
Wilson  Leonard  ran  lightly  up  the  stairs  and 
entered  the  room. 

"Spring  at  last,"  he  said,  with  a  grave  smile, 
as  he  held  out  his  hand. 

"Yes,  the  spring  has  come." 

The  young  doctor's  sympathetic  glance  sought 
the  singer's  face,  and  searching  there  discovered 


364  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

that  there  was  a  second  meaning  in  the  simple 
acquiescence — a  meaning  intended  for  the  speak- 
er's private  edification.  From  the  strong  and 
gentle  face  Leonard  turned  his  attention  to  tiie 
upright  person,  and  detected  there  a  difference  in 
habiliment.  Crozier  was  dressed  in  country 
clothes,  and  yet  he  pretended  to  himself  that  the 
idea  of  running  away  from  London  and  its  dusty 
life  had  only  come  to  him  after  breakfast.  The 
doctor  moved  a  little,  and  looked  out  of  the  win- 
dow thoughtfully.  Suddenly  a  short  rapid  sigh 
broke  from  his  lips,  and  he  seemed  quite  uncon- 
scious of  It.  These  little  sighs  were  becoming 
dangerously  habitual  with  him. 

"This  sort  of  weather  makes-one  long  to  get 
away,"  he  said,  softly;  "to  get  away  from  town 
and  hospitals,  sickness,  accidents  .  .  .  and 
,     .     .     everything." 

''Yes  .  .  ."  answered  the  singer.  It  seemed 
as  if  he  were  going  to  add  something  more,  but 
he  stopped  suddenly  and  continued  smoking. 
He  was  pondering  over  that  sharp  sign  and  the 
emotionless,  sympathetic  face — wondering  over 
the  wealth  of  meaning  that  lay  sometimes  in  the 
little  word  "  everything." 

Professionally,  and  from  a  practical  worldly 
point  of  view,  Fate  had  interposed  her  steady 
hand  for  the  infinite  benefit  of  Wilson  Leonard 
as  a  doctor  and  a  gentleman.  Poor  Syra  had 
been  right  when  she  boldly  told  him  that  she 
could   only  bring   misery  into   his   life,   and  he 


GOLDHEATH  AGAIN  365 

knew  it,  but  from  the  knowledge  gained  no  con- 
solation. Had  the  world  known  the  story  of 
this  kindly  young  doctor,  they  would  have  bid 
him  congratulate  himself  that  a  terrible  mistake 
had  been  averted — that  it  lay  in  a  nameless  grave 
in  one  of  the  vast  fields  where  sleep  the  London 
dead,  crowded  and  hustled  even  in  their  rest. 
But  the  world  knew  nothing  of  the  story.  It 
was  hidden  from  every  living  soul  with  the 
exception  of  the  broad-shouldered  man  who 
stood  smoking  in  his  simple  silence,  pondering 
over  that  little  word  "everything,"  and  realizing 
slowly  that  there  was  something  which  Dr. 
Leonard  could  never  leave  behind,  and  never  get 
away  from. 

"I  am  beginning  to  think,"  said  the  doctor, 
"that  I  cannot  stand  this  much  longer.  No 
doubt  it  is  the  effect  of  the  spring  weather.  But 
Saint  Antony's  is  too  busy  with  misery — uttef 
and  hopeless  misery.  I  have  done  my  share;  I 
think  I  have  waded  deeply  enough,  Sam,  into 
the  mire  of  human  troubles.  It  cannot  be  good, 
for  a  fellow  to  live  too  long  in  one  groove, 
especially  when  that  groove  is  full  of  suffering." 

"You  want  a  thorough  change,  Leonard,"  said 
Crozier,  presently.  "  You  have  seen  too  much  of 
the  shady  side  of  existence  all  at  once,  and  it  has 
done  you  harm.  You  will  be  beginning  to  think 
that  all  the  world  is  like  it,  which  is  a  mistake." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  it  is." 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  you  must  do,"  continued 


366  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

the  singer.  "  Come  with  me  for  a  cruise;  the 
IViI/ow-icren  is  ready  and  waiting  at  Cowes.  I 
want  to  get  up  a  party  .  .  .  the  Valliants 
,  .  .  yourself,  your  sister  if  she  will  come, 
and  a  sailor  1  know  of.  We  will  go  for  a  month 
up  into  the  Norwegian  Fjords,  where  there  is 
never  a  heavy  sea,  and  fish  and  lounge.  I  think 
perhaps  we  all  want  a  change." 

"  It  sounds  very  jolly,"  said  the  doctor,  with  a 
wan  smile. 

"  It  will  be  very  jolly.  I  will  get  the  company 
together  at  once.  In  fact  I  rather  thought,  of 
going  down  to  Goldheath  to-day — partly  with  a 
view  of  seeing  if  they  would  come.  The  old 
gentleman  is  an  enthusiastic  fisherman,  and 
,     .     .     Miss  Valliant    .    .     .     paints." 

"  When  do  you  think  of  starting  ?" 

"About  the  middle  of  June,"  replied  the 
singer,  "  Midsummer  is  the  best  time  for  north- 
ern regions." 

It  is  strange  how  men  can  go  on  living 
together,  or  near  each  other  as  friends  for  years, 
without  ever  exchanging  a  confidence.  No  ref- 
erence to  the  past  had  ever  been  made  by  either 
Crozier  or  the  doctor.  Syra's  name  had  never 
been  mentioned,  had  never  passed  their  lips  since 
that  night  when  Elma  sat  in  dazed  silence  and 
watched  the  two  men  standing  together  at  the 
door — Leonard  pale  and  sick,  Crozier  quick  and 
watchful.  The  little  stagger,  the  numb  clutch- 
ing at  the  wall,  had  never  been  explained,  and 


GOLDHEATH  AGAIN  367 

never  would  be  now.  A  strained  reference  was 
occasionally  made  to  Tom  Valliant,  sleeping 
peacefully  in  Goldheath  churchyard,  blind  to  all 
the  shadows,  deaf  to  the  weary  plash  of  rain  and 
the  dull  foreboding  roar  of  storms;  but  the  sub- 
ject was  too  near  to  other  matters  painful  for 
both,  and  was  soon  dropped.  It  was  only  by 
vague  half-hidden  words  of  sympathy  that  Crozier 
referred  at  times  to  the  chapter  in  Leonard's  life 
which  was  destined  for  deliberate  obliteration  in 
the  face  of  the  world,  though  its  effect  went 
through  existence  with  him;  and  by  quiet  acqui- 
escence Leonard  acknowledged  his  friend's  in- 
tention. 

"Then,"  said  the  singer,  in  a  business-like  tone, 
"  I  may  count  upon  you?  1  may  hold  you  out 
as  an  attraction  to  hesitators  ?  " 

"Thanks,"  replied  the  other;  "  I  should  like  to 
go  very  much." 

His  tone  was  cheery  enough,  but  Crozier 
glanced  at  his  face  as  he  turned  to  seek  his  hat, 
and  saw  that  Wilson  Leonard  was  not  telling  the 
strict  truth.  Had  he  told  this  he  would  have 
said  that  he  did  not  care  a  rap  where  he  went 
and  what  he  did,  for  a  great  and  weary  indiffer- 
ence had  come  to  him. 

"  I  must  be  going  now,"  said  Crozier.  "There 
is  just  time  to  catch  the  train.  Will  you  walk 
along  with  me  ?" 

The  doctor  looked  round  for  the  inevitable 
Gladstone  bag,  but  saw  it  not. 


368  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

"  You  are  taking  no  luggage  ?"  he  said. 

"  No.  I  am  not  going  to  stay — have  to  sing  at 
Kensington  to-night." 

Conversation  became  broken  and  desultory  as 
they  walked  together  i.long  the  Strand.  The 
human  tide  was  flowing  eastward,  and  was 
therefore  against  them,  which  necessitated  con- 
tinual separation.  At  the  corner  of  Waterloo 
Bridge  they  parted,  and  Leonard  went  back,  to 
St.  Antony's,  while  Crozier  crossed  the  river. 

There  was  absolutely  no  incident  to  mark  the 
railway  journey,  and  yet  it  was  one  that  the 
singer  remembered  to  the  end  of  his  life.  The 
train  was  almost  empty,  and  he  had  the  choice 
of  many  compartments.  Once  beyond  the  sub- 
urbs he  lowered  the  v/indow,  and  soon  after- 
ward his  newspaper  began  to  lose  interest. 
The  line  was  very  familiar  to  him;  he  had  trav- 
elled on  it  years  ago  with  his  first  brass  buttons 
proudly  gleaming  on  his  breast,  and  his  last  tears 
struggling  to  flow.  Between  those  two  railway 
journeys  lay  a  whole  history. 

Presently  the  train  ran  into  the  sandy  pine 
country.  There  had  been  rain  the  night  before, 
and  all  the  atmosphere  was  fragrant  with  the 
strong  energetic  smell  of  oozing  resin.  Through 
the  odourous  forests  the  travellers  sped,  stopping 
here  and  there  at  quiet  little  roadside  stations, 
until  at  last  it  was  Crozier's  turn  to  alight. 

Mechanically  he  nodded  to  the  station-master, 
who  remembered  his  father,  and  held  his  own 


GOLDHEATH  AGAIN  369 

opinions  about  a  parson's  son  taking  to  singing 
and  play-acting,  and  the  like.  Sam  Crozier  had 
never  acted  a  part  in  his  life  except  his  own, 
which  had  at  times  been  difficult  enough,  but 
at  Goldheath  one  stage  was  considered  as  bad  as 
another. 

As  he  walked  along  the  gravelly  platform  he 
loDked  round  him  at  the  broad  open  country,  and 
inhaled  the  air.  Never,  he  thought,  had  breath 
been  so  sweet — without  even  noticing  that  the 
station-master's  wall-flowers  were  out,  which  no 
doubt  accounted  for  it  all. 

In  a  few  minutes  he  was  striding  across  Gold- 
heath  by  a  narrow  pathway  shorter  than  the 
road.  Goldheath  it  was  indeed  that  morning, 
for  furze  and  whin  were  blooming  in  golden 
luxuriance,  and  the  yellow-clad  undulations 
rolled  away  into  hazy  distance  unbroken  save 
by  a  stunted  pine  or  two  and  some  straight 
larches  clad  in  new  and  delicate  green,  of  which 
the  subtle  aroma  came  in  puffs. 

Overhead  the  larks  were  singing  blithely, 
while  all  around  whin-chat,  wren,  and  yellow- 
hammer  added  their  voices  to  the  great  rejoic- 
ing. Away  somewhere  in  the  distance  a  hawk 
whistled  his  mellow  call,  and  fancied  himself  a 
curlew. 

Through  this  Samuel  Crozier  sped  rapidly 
with  firm  long  strides,  and  softly  hummed  his 
most  melancholy  song  because  the  world  was  so 
fair,  the  morning  so  bright;  because  he  felt  that 


370  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

the  day  was  his,  that  whatever  he  attempted  he 
must  accomplish,  whatever  he  sought  he  was 
sure  to  fmd. 

The  short  cut  which  he  had  chosen  did  not 
lead  to  the  village  of  Goldheath,  but  direct  to 
the  Court,  cutting  diagonally  the  long  path. 
There  was  a  stile  from  the  open  heath  into  the 
orchard,  which  latter  was  but  thinly  wooded, 
and  no  great  success  in  the  primary  matter  of 
fruit,  and  as  he  climbed  this  he  heard  the  sound 
of  wheels  upon  the  soft  gravel  of  the  avenue. 

He  walked  on  beneath  the  blossoming  trees  to- 
ward the  sound,  and  then  suddenly,  and  in  a  most 
unaccountable  manner,  he  stopped.  Through 
the,  as  yet,  untrimmed  hedge  he  had  caught  sight 
of  Squire  Valliants  ancient  mail-phaeton.  The 
old  gentleman  was  gallantly  driving  with  squared 
elbows,  and  at  his  side  sat  his  wife. 

Years  ago  in  a  little  affair  of  a  naval  brigade, 
Samuel  Crozier  had  learnt  most  effectually  the 
art  of  seeking  covert.  He  merely  stooped  and 
turned  down  his  trousers,  in  which  he  had  taken 
a  reef  for  greater  convenience  while  crossing 
the  sandy  heath;  but  it  happened  that  a  very 
promising  black-current  bush  entirely  concealed 
him  from  the  view  of  any  persons  who  might  be 
in  the  avenue. 

As  the  sound  of  the  wheels  diminished  he  rose 
again  erect,  and  walked  on  with  no  outward 
sign  of  an  evil  conscience. 

"  She  will  either  be  in  the  walled  garden  or  in 


GOLDHEATH  AGAIN  371 

the  house,  painting,"  he  said  gravely  to  himself. 
"Of  course  she  may  be  out,  or  even  away  from 
home,  but    .     .     .     but  1  think  she  is  here." 

On  nearing  the  house  he  ignored  the  formal 
Dell  at  the  side  of  the  broad  porch,  and  directed 
nis  steps  across  the  turf  toward  the  trellised  door 
of  the  walled  garden.  There  was  no  hesitation, 
no  pause  in  his  progress.  He  merely  pushed  the 
door  open  and  walked  straight  in.  Instantly  a 
warmer  breath  of  air  met  his  face,  and  it  was 
heavy  with  the  odours  of  a  hundred  old-fash- 
ioned flowers.  A  few  yards  away  from  him 
was  Elma.  She  did  not  hear  him,  for  the  soft 
sandy  gravel  made  no  sound  beneath  his  feet, 
and  she  did  not  see  him,  because  she  was  walk- 
ing in  the  other  direction  with  a  book  in  her 
hand  which  she  was  reading. 

Round  the  walled  garden,  which  was  itself  a 
circle,  ran  a  circular  path  of  sandy  gravel — a 
pleasant  path  to  walk  upon,  for  at  parts  it  was 
shady,  and  there  were  sunny  intervals  such  as 
are  bearable  and  even  grateful  in  most  of  our 
English  summer  days— which,  if  a  wanderer  may 
say  so,  are  as  near  perfection  as  earthly  climate 
reaches.  Again,  there  was  no  break  in  the  path, 
no  halt  and  turn,  but  a  continuous  round  amid 
sweet-smelling  flowers.  Here  Elma  loved  to 
walk  with  a  book,  amidst  her  odourous  slaves, 
with  the  birds  singing  all  around  her. 

Crozier  stood  beneath  the  shade  of  an  old  ilex, 
and  watched  her  as  she  moved  away  from  him. 


372  THE  PHANTOM  FUTURE 

He  stood  in  his  silent  repose,  and  waited  for 
her  to  come  round  to  him.  Unconsciously  he 
thus  symbolized  his  own  life.  Had  he  not 
waited  in  that  same  fatalistic,  unmurmuring  way 
for  her  to  come  to  him  through  all  the  years  that 
lay  between  them  ?  Had  she  not,  in  her  turn, 
started  on  a  path  which  apparently  led  in  an  op- 
posite direction,  following  its  winding  guidance 
through  sunshine  and  shadow,  scarce  glancing  to 
either  side  with  those  soft  inscrutable  eyes  of 
hers,  only  to  tread  in  the  right  way  at  last  ? 
There  was  no  break  in  that  circular  path,  and  if 
we  only  knew  it,  there  is  a  similar  path  beneath 
our  feet  marked  out  for  us  to  follow,  and  yet  we 
leave  it  deliberately,  and  crush  the  flowers  that 
grow  on  either  side.  Elma  loved  the  flowers  too 
well  to  crush  them,  and  she  knew  the  path  too 
well  to  leave  it. 

Suddenly  she  became  aware  that  there  was 
some  one  near  her,  standing  indeed  hatless  in  the 
middle  of  the  path  before  her.  It  was  beneath 
the  shade  of  a  glorious  old  cedar,  but  a  shaft  of 
sunlight  glanced  through  the  dark  boughs  and 
gleamed  upon  the  pages  of  her  book,  throwing 
back  a  soft  glow  upon  her  features.  Thus  it 
happened  that  although  her  face  was  in  the  light, 
her  eyes  being  in  the  shadow  were  soft,  and 
deep,  and  dark,  when  she  raised  them  to  his 
face. 

THE  END. 


/O 


Ph 


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